Chapter 563: Recuperation Trip (8)

Anyway, the inquiries about Eon Yeonyeong continued.

A kindly, mild prankster.

She was genuinely good-natured, competent with work, no slouch in martial talent, and enjoyed a fine reputation.

Though frail of body, she even took Martial Alliance patrol shifts; despite her health lagging behind, she was a born fighter—already without peer among her age-mates.

She loved making acquaintances and paid calls as a guest for pleasure; she got along with everyone, with no rough edges.

Gentle and demure, yet unexpectedly a mischief-maker—the sort who only pulled small pranks that never soured anyone’s mood.

She’d spot a secret couple, set up separate appointments, guide them, and push them together; slip one odd flavor into hand-made snacks; bring out chilled tea.

She’d wear a solemn face like some great sorrow weighed on her, and when pressed would confess things that drew hollow laughter: a hole in her shoe, or that a garment’s pattern displeased her.

Such were the findings on what sort of person Eon Yeonyeong had been.

Which was why, when news came that she’d defected, nobody believed it.

Qing, for her part, thought—hm. Is this even the same person?

Not kind, not gentle, and as for pranks—hm.

Summoning people with fixed routes and times, making them attend her bath, then holding me in place so the Blood Cult could swarm us—calling that a prank crossed far past the line.

What is she, some Holy Empire of the Western Regions?

Not one piece matches?

People change.

There’s Grandpa, once a notorious great demon-arts butcher, and our very own Hee-mae, who used to torment her seniors like it was nothing.

Look at Lady Moyong.

A woman who used to pitch fits and pick fights now handles our party quietly and properly without a peep of attitude.

If some change for the better, some change the other way.

Which is to say, it’s not a factor worth special pleading.

“She wasn’t the type.”

“She was so good as a kid.”

Yes, yes—that was as a kid. The point is, she isn’t now.

Who knows?

Maybe some shock wrenched her into a different person.

But that doesn’t excuse her present crimes.

Besides, she’s been subtly—no, blatantly—showing favor while never caring a whit whether I live or die.

Vowing to raise me as a corpse-puppet even if I perish—so yes, my body is the prize. How perfectly impure.

Mm. Whatever. Eat first.

—But what’s this? You have got to be kidding me!

“Sahn? Whaff ish thish?”

Baaah. Qing stuck out her tongue.

A big fish bone sat squarely on the bright-red surface—far too large to chew and swallow.

A stiff spine-bone, practically a dagger.

“Ahem. Unintentional.”

Qing’s eyes narrowed.

Does he know how dangerous fish bones are?

Is this service at table or an assassination attempt?

She thrust her tongue farther as protest—

A bodily message: remove the non-edibles and bring food I can actually eat.

Peng Daesan was dumbfounded.

Granted, Qing needed convalescence for fractures throughout, muscle tears, and ligament damage.

Especially arm movement—neck, back, shoulders, bones, muscles, ligaments, everything works together; best to keep calm.

But she wasn’t bedridden and groaning; she could manage light daily life.

Still—honestly now. However convenient, sticking that tongue out like a lizard?

“As a woman, have you no intention of preserving the minimum dignity?”

“Goff it. Hurr-ry.”

Peng Daesan sighed long.

A house dog back at the estate wouldn’t behave like this.

A dog at least begs for food; it doesn’t demand you remove what it can’t eat.

Dog versus Ximen Qing—victory: dog!

He lifted his chopsticks and neatly extracted the bone.

“See? This is why men won’t do. No delicacy. None at all. Qing, you didn’t stab yourself mid-chew, did you? Ugh, how startled you must have been. You okay? Should I just feed you myself?”

Tang Nana laid the groundwork at once, fussing; Peng Daesan’s brow twitched.

She can’t stitch muscle or set a pin herself and borrows other hands—yet a fish bone is no ten-thousand-year iron weapon that could pierce that sturdy mouth.

“No. I’ll do it.”

Seol Iri stepped up immediately—

And beside her, without speaking, Gongsun Yoye pleaded with shining eyes.

Qing was firm on this point.

“No. It tangles the order. The closer you are, the stricter you have to be about lines like this.”

But Tang Nana never lost in doggedness.

“Fine, food aside. So? What about the bath tonight? Not washing? Who’s on the night shift?”

Qing’s gaze turned sly.

Her precise, teasing look for when she was about to torment someone.

“San? Interested?”

“No!” “No!” “No!”

Tang Nana. Gongsun Yoye. Seol Iri.

Huh. Did Iri just shout?

New personal best in volume? And Gunyeong can be loud too? I’d thought folks from the North Sea had defective volume knobs.

I only meant a little tease, but they’re too worked up—best shelve it.

Still, Qing felt wronged.

What? I only brought it up—did they really think I’d make him attend my bath?

If that rumor spreads, what then?

You don’t torpedo a friend’s marriage prospects.

“Mm. Then no helping it tonight. I’ll just wash my face and sleep alone. Plan accordingly.”

“But—”

“This is your fault. Find a ‘replacement’ and you’ll just break out the poisons and have them carried off again.”

Seol Iri had once ended up curled on the floor, clutching her aching belly, snot gushing and tears streaming from endless sneezes.

Tang Nana doesn’t just pretend to bring out poison. She actually uses poison!

Only Qing’s constant interceptions kept Iri from suffering through another round of petty toxins.

In its way, that was positive feedback.

She never used poison on Lady Moyong or Yeonseo.

Kids grow by fighting; nemeses are a relationship of sorts; if you’re purely distant, you can’t even do petty wrongs.

Seol Iri didn’t only endure; she struck back with petty vengeance—cooling Nana’s meals and snacks whenever she could.

I mean, cold tea barely counts as revenge, but cold beef soup—hm. Cold beef soup, cold duck noodles, cold mala soup—that’s something.

Tang Nana wore a wounded look.

As for Qing—she happened to have arts to learn tonight, so sleeping alone suited her fine.

By the devoted explanations of the two second-rate strategists

(while the first-rate strategist is that most eminent mind currently “doing business” in the carpenter’s land):

The Birth-Heart Formula boosts the heart’s vitality. A side effect: increased appetite.

Why is that a side effect?

If you can eat more in a day, isn’t that good? If you bump three meals to four, your daily joy goes up by about three-point-three-three-three to infinity.

Sounds like a Divine Art to me.

For something marked in red, what lofty function!

The Eon main line loved corpse-puppets; not only did they craft them, they tried to mimic them—thus their secret external art, the Corpse-Puppet Body Art.

Since the Body Art slowed heartbeat and metabolism, they used the Birth-Heart Formula to compensate.

Right-Mind of Shedding Fate sprang from the Buddhist side, but its killing aura and rough flow kept it from orthodox Buddhist status.

Just watching how it pairs with saber method tells you it isn’t from the orthodox temple line.

Yet the very image of “shedding fate,” refusing the course of things and casting it off, follows Buddhist transcendence.

In the Buddhist telling, this Saha world condemns its people to infinite suffering within endless cycles.

To accrue merit and reach nirvana is itself an act against the world’s order—

Thus Buddhist asceticism is hard.

It’s the laws of the world versus a single person.

How hard? In the entirety of the Saha world, only Śākyamuni is recorded to have attained nirvana; that fact testifies.

“Buddha” is merely a title for one who has attained release; there are many buddhas, but only one from the Saha world.

The current keeper is a famed great demon-arts master and one of the Ten Great Masters; the family line has advanced since, so details may be imperfect—but anyway.

Thus, in the deep of night, a low groan—grit, urk—of forced endurance circled the room: while practicing, she went ahead and queued up six at once: Right-Mind of Shedding Fate, Shedding Fate Saber, Eon Family Fist, Birth-Heart Formula, Taesan Blood Claw, and the Abstract-Flow Japanese Sword that had been only pre-registered.

In short, brain-kneading times six.

Honestly, the reason I’d left them idle: unless a study is “my art,” more won’t help much.

Shedding Fate, Eon Fist, Taesan Blood Claw—they’re red: saber, fist, claw. Why bother when I have Divine Arts?

Abstract-Flow Japanese Sword is even blue.

Now that I’ve stepped into the Flower Realm, the higher I go, the less this Martial Arts Store helps—maybe it even hinders.

You know how in early video games, flat stat bonuses are strong, but late game, multiplicative scalers blow them away?

Already I’m thinking: once I reach the Life-and-Death Boundary, even if I learn every inner method in the world, I’ll still feel short on inner energy.

Same for the arts.

I can wield them to decent effect as my hands remember.

But to harmonize with my mind-image—use them for real? The kind of embodied truth no Martial Arts Store can explain, true martial art I can pour into any weapon, any stance—at best, only the five stances of Moon Maiden Sword Art.

So I won’t use them much; still, if I learn them roughly, I get stronger and sturdier—though raw physique matters less the higher I climb.

Above all, against foes, broader understanding makes for easier fights.

It’s efficient for reading the enemy, not for adding to my bag of tricks.

Maybe the Martial Arts Store really is nothing?

Is this okay? Can’t you juice me, just once?

The Store would be scandalized.

You only just reached the Flower Realm and you’re already side-eyeing the Life-and-Death Boundary? People will think you’ve got that realm on layaway.

Also—do you even know whose help kept your thread of life intact, you brazen hussy?

Qing would answer with chest out:

The Corpse-Blood Poisoner—my constitution—handled all that, didn’t it?

Anyway, a new resident moved into the dantian.

A fizzy little thing who couldn’t keep still, head flicking left and right—Birth-Heart Formula.

What’s this smell? A heart’s scent?

The Seizing-Heart Demon-Energy flashed wild eyes;

The freshly arrived Birth-Heart Vitality, glancing about, broke into a bright, lively smile and slapped itself against the elephant bearing the palanquin of Royal Prajñā Energy from the Dragon Throne.

Seems there’s a conduit where strength and vigor run.

While the demon-energies lamented, another resident stepped through the dantian gate.

Oho! This time one of ours! A true demonic energy!

At last, their own kind—how the demon-energies hopped and squeaked with glee. The newcomer certainly looked the part.

Scowling, slouching, chomping something with a sticky, black killing aura rising—

It wore a monk’s kashaya, but shredded to tatters—pure rebellious defrocked-monk swagger.

At last—a true demonic art! After being outnumbered so long, sweet vindication!

The captain of the demonic camp, the Self-Driving Demon-Energy, spread his arms wide to welcome this rare comrade—

Thump!

Kicked hard, the captain flopped onto the dantian floor, pitiful, a chain of question marks floating above him.

A loud click of the tongue from the Shedding-Fate True-Energy.

He sauntered—swaggered—over to the Dao–Buddhist side, crouched like a punk, elbows on knees, and took his seat.

For all that Right-Mind of Shedding Fate had long developed brutally in a demon-arts household, its root remained a Buddhist art.

“Real” demon-energy—what a miserable lot.

All the demon-energies drooped their heads in unison.

Then it came. Heh-heh...!

A laugh, dripping with scorn.

All their heads snapped up.

****

Qing, undone by the aftereffects of brain-kneading, lay sprawled, drool mark drying at the corner of her mouth.

The guest-room door eased open without a sound.

An uninvited night visitor slid into the dark and crept toward the bed.

But Qing was no easy mark.

Her mind was already unsettled; with her brain flipping, some strange, nameless queasiness crawled over her skin—how could she miss an intruder?

And while the steps were muted, this was no infiltration specialist; you don’t evade the senses of a Flower Realm adept that way.

“Iri?”

“Yes.”

“Go stand over there with your hands up.”

“Yes.”

Qing crooked an elbow and pointed.

Since she was caught anyway, Seol Iri trudged over and raised her hands—next to Tang Nana, who was already standing there with her hands up.

“I told you—after breakfast tomorrow we’re stopping by the market for gifts and then leaving immediately. You should be thinking of sleeping well before departure. Why, exactly, are you crawling into someone else’s bedroom at this hour?”

“I just—Qing, I worry.”

“I’m not ‘someone else.’”

“What’s your deal? Talking weird. If you’re not ‘someone else,’ what are you?”

“Third party. Don’t butt in.”

“Excuse me!? Who’s a third party?”

“You. Vile poison-monger.”

“Why, you little—!”

“Tsk. Are you two going to keep bickering? Want to hold those hands up till dawn?”

“She’s the one talking nonsense.”

“No. No. I was wrong. I won’t.”

“Hey—if you fold like that, what do I look—”

“Sigh. Nana, stay put. At least Iri follows instructions. Iri, come here. Hm? Iri, come here? That’s good. Iri, over here, Iri—hm, Iri...”

“Why only me—”

In Nana’s protesting gaze, Seol Iri very pointedly lifted a fist.

“See? Look at that! She only—”

“You going to keep shouting at midnight?”

Tang Nana’s lips jutted out long.

A proper duck bill—slice it and you’d plate three dishes.

Qing exhaled, loooong.

“There’s a spot open at my side. You coming here, or are you going to keep standing?”

Tang Nana plunged into a fierce struggle.

Go? Don’t? But she’s doting on that vixen way too much. Qing, are you treating me like that too? How could you do this to me. Hmph—fine, hmph. Let me be gone and see. Then you’ll say you should’ve treasured me while I was here, and you’ll bawl and beg on your knees—“I need you, you’re my dearest friend”—and maybe, maybe I’ll forgive—no, I won’t. You’re taking me for granted because I’m too good to you. Qing, don’t you dare—

“Nana? My flank’s a little chilly. Anyone going to warm it up?”

“Oh, really? Then it can’t be helped. What would you do without me, Qing?”

Beaming, Tang Nana headed straight for the bed.

And thus the last night at the Martial Alliance deepened.