Chapter 567: Recuperation Trip (12)

Tang Nana and Seol Iri went to the guest hall to unpack. Qing headed for that awkward little cliff-nook on Goddess Peak.

In Qing’s memory it was small—mm, not exactly cozy—but still my home.

She could see it even with her eyes closed.

Round the bend: a tiny hut, missing a few elements any real house should have; and, right where she belonged, a little brat planted like a flag.

Sure enough, Jin Jangmyeong—swinging a sword alone in the empty yard—spotted Qing and lit up with a punctuation mark the Central Plains doesn’t have yet: an exclamation point.

Then she scuttled over, and Qing climbed down from her human palanquin, Gyeon Pohee, to stand on her own two feet.

Qing threw her arms wide; the brat’s face bloomed to match. Great proportions, but short—all the more frantic the little legs.

“Big sis!”

“Brat!”

And—snatch.

Gyeon Pohee plucked Jin Jangmyeong right up.

Jangmyeong kicked and wriggled, but Pohee stood on the late peak of super-transcendent, a step shy of Flower Realm—no mere first-class could resist.

Besides, the “Heaven-and-Earth Great Bearing” Pohee had mastered specializes in redirecting force. One can’t help but harbor the reasonable suspicion that it was invented specifically to provide supreme ride comfort while transporting me.

“...? Eek—hey, put me down.”

“Hehe. Sadly, by law of the land, a Flower-Realm expert and a first-class upstart cannot embrace. I will, however, provide the cute Hee-mae as a substitute. Be content with Hee-mae.”

“What law. There’s no such law. Eek—let go.”

“I’m cute? I’ve never been told that.”

Pohee tilted her head.

Qing confirmed with solemn sincerity.

“Of course. Hee-mae is the second cutest in the world. Don’t be disappointed by this back. This back is a big deal.”

“Am I... first, then?”

“No. Hyang is. Brat, your face is surprisingly thick—no, thinking back, it’s always been thick.”

“...Who’s that.”

“Hee-mae, lower the eyes a bit, would you? A first-class shouldn’t be eye-to-eye with a Flower-Realm senior. Lower. Lower—good.”

On tiptoe, Jangmyeong pawed at the height where her feet would barely touch—and then froze, gulped air, and finally asked:

“What—did you reach the Flower Realm? Big sis is Flower Realm? Really?”

“Hmph. These are called Aura Orbs. Very sparkly. In fact, you can use them as lanterns in the dark.”

“Ooh—congra—no—put me down. I said, put me down.”

I wondered if Nosan had crushed her spirits for being no help—

but there she was, healthy and burning through practice.

Qing felt a twinge of shame.

How much had she underestimated Jangmyeong?

Wasn’t the one who made light of her me?

As Qing unpacked—well, watched Gyeon Pohee unpack—she asked:

“Speaking of which—Master?”

“Returned.”

“Mmn. Sounds odd if you say it like that. Returned to the Great Origin, right?”

“Mm. She said if you sent any message, she’d see that it’s sent along.”

“Well then she’s reading it about now.”

All settled, master and disciple now stood at the same realm. The letter Qing sent said as much, with a “blue from indigo is bluer than indigo; ice from water is colder than water” flourish—don’t worry, Master: when it comes to dueling, you might lack a bit, so if you fought your disciple she’d probably win—such is the Yangtze’s back wave driving the front wave. That sort of letter, stuffed with concern.

“Oh. Right.”

“Mm? Right about what?”

“You’re right. The Grand Sect Master is furious. Said she should’ve broken your legs so you couldn’t go out at all.”

Qing answered with unshakable confidence—hmph.

“That’s why I staked my life and climbed to the Flower Realm. But once she sees I’ve done it, she’ll melt.”

First, pay respects to the Sect Master.

Strictly, Qing is an outer-gate disciple; she needn’t greet the master first.

But an order has rules. If Qing bolted straight to Ximen Surin, what would that do to the Sect Master’s authority?

Granted, Heaven-Piercing Sword Wang Juhee is as low-profile as her epithet is lofty (lately she’s been reclaiming presence by leaning on generosity). She isn’t the sort to force authority into a seat she never wanted. She’d nod: the master comes first.

But Ximen Surin minds her disciple’s standing. If Qing went to her first, she’d surely scold: Even if the Sect Master is hard to see, even if she slips the mind for lack of presence—there are courtesies and laws.

“Ah! So there has been attainment. At this rate our youngest junior might overtake me.”

“Hehe.”

“Your master is waiting. Junior sister, go on ahead. Physician Tang? I’m sorry to say this right as we meet again, but—could you spare a little time? ...Lady Seol, you’re heading straight to the training halls, yes?”

“Ah.” “Yes.”

That jogged Tang Nana’s memory of the last time she visited—when Divine Lady’s Gate worked her half to death. Oh... right.

But what’s done is done. Even if she’d known, she’d have followed Qing up anyway. So, what can you do—swing the pestle like a hired porter.

Thus Qing strode with martial majesty—or rather, only her mood strode; her body was far from whole—ambling gently toward Ximen Surin’s hut.

A figure rose suddenly, clucked her tongue, and dropped a stern voice:

“Swagger, swagger—how does a grown woman totter like a piss-stained child? What a disgrace.”

“Ah—Master! Oof—”

Qing sprang forward with a bright smile—pain lanced true, and her breath caught.

Pain relaxes the muscles; when it hits unawares, strength spills out.

As she pitched—poof—

Qing fell into her master’s arms, grinning dopey.

“Hehe. Master, your disciple Ximen Qing pays respects.”

“...What am I to do with this gremlin.”

Ximen Surin heaved a long sigh.

Patches crossed brow and cheek and bridge of nose; another ran from eye-corner to jaw. The swelling was down, at least.

But that face, slathered in medicated cloth, trudging up a slope with obvious pain—how could a teacher sit and wait?

The urge to scold burned hot—then guttered when she saw the hurt.

There is no brat in the world as ill-mannered.

Since when did masters coddle injured disciples? Must a withered teacher bear her disciple in her arms? You wicked child.

Knowing none of it, the disciple just—hehe—

Ecstatic to be held by her master.

“Master, anything... different about me?”

“With your face all covered, how am I to tell? Heaven and earth—what kind of subhuman wrecks a woman’s face like this? I should wipe their line from the earth.”

Her answer came flat.

Anger boiling, but she can’t lash an injured student—so the voice goes dull of its own.

Martial seniors two generations back might find this unfair.

In the old days, striking the face or breast in a match meant “you look down on me” and earned extra beatings.

If hitting the face is a sin and not hitting the face is a sin, perhaps you just wanted to beat people.

“Not that. I mean... my energy.”

“Mmm?”

Ximen Surin’s step hitched.

“Did you Enter Demon?”

“Eyy. Would your disciple Enter Demon?”

Then—Flower Realm? Flower Realm!?

A disciple who hit super-transcendent just last year leaping to Harmony in a flash?

There are “records,” and then there’s this—this has no precedent to be a record.

More pressing: what corner drove her there?

Now that she held her, she felt it: not a joint or channel whole. How much worse was it before the patches? She couldn’t bear to imagine.

What brutal misery did you endure, climbing a realm to this state—her chest went tight.

“It started with a single page from a gazetteer. Your disciple was in the Great Origin, immersed in the classics and discussion with scholars and—”

“Inside.”

As always, the great gate stood open. Ximen Surin carried her disciple in.

Then, when she asked for the story, Qing thrust out her chest with pride—already pronounced, yet somehow she managed to make it stick out more.

Now that it stood so sharp, the asymmetry was obvious—padding on one side—Ximen Surin’s insides boiled.

Some degenerate had split her chest open again.

“When I was in the Great Origin, Master, I burned with zeal for the Hundred Schools—listening to every scholar’s glosses, studying like mad—then, uh, mm, what-were-they—ghoul-bandits?—anyway, some border raiders—so I cut them down and, heavens, out pops this Jangbo stuff! Do you know Jangbo? Of course you do—the Sect Master even made underclothes out of it. Anyway, that Jangbo—”

Qing chattered on, oblivious.

Proudly spinning her heroic tale—

unaware her master’s fury-meter was ticking up.

Then—Absorbing Essence Devil Art!

The fury-meter slammed to full.

This colt—does she understand how vicious that art is, and how monstrous the desire to obtain it?

And that Cheon brat—told him to teach texts—what did he do with my precious disciple!?

Yet the full bar trembled... and slowly stepped down.

Hold. Hold. The child is hurt.

And yes, she lost her head—but still stood up for justice; that, at least, deserves praise—

Praise, my ass. Even if punished, she’ll just crumple and roll, and she never listens. What am I to do.

In any case, coming straight back to Divine Lady’s Gate was the smartest thing Qing could’ve done.

The patient’s-shield tactic works in any age.

Then—Blood Cult!

Fury-meter at the threshold!

But—held! Barely!

Then—Life-and-Death Duel! Seventeen to one—the legend!

“How much fury for you today, ma’am? Fill ’er up.”

But—the child is hurt—fuuuuu—

She held again!

A midnight breakout! The uproar at Axe-Handle County!

Ximen Surin’s fist trembled like stifled sobs—“a fist weeps” is a phrase of uncanny truth.

Still, friends rallied, and they endured for each other—

and so, with a splendid realization, a miracle of growth in realm—

“...and that’s how I reached the Flower Realm.”

“I, you, us. Mm. You have made truly good friends. Thank heaven.”

At the Three Suns, the fury-meter fell straight to calm. One great fear, at least, set down.

The girl who wavered and grasped for human warmth—judging by her Harmony—wouldn’t spin to an extreme and lose herself.

“How did you form your Three Suns, Master?”

Ximen Surin smiled—soft and slow.

To trade insights on the Three with a disciple—this is the hour every master in the world longs for.

“Living as a woman, I saw an unjust world—and women so pitiful they did not even know their suffering was injustice. When I learned the age itself was the cause, I learned my charge. So I stood up.”

“Ah. Yes.”

“You are Flower Realm now—an established expert of our age. As a woman of arms, you too must consider how we are to act for our women. It was not always like this; in the Spring and Autumn times, those ‘teachers’ misled with wicked words—”

Ah. This. I asked the wrong thing.

Qing regretted it instantly. Too late. The lips had opened. The hoarded words had found their hour, and the dam burst.

Where am I. Who am I.

They say time is relative—indeed. Did even the honey-tongued Master A. endure lectures that dilated spacetime?

But humans save themselves.

Grrrrn—Qing’s belly thundered a grand protest. Feed me. The lion’s roar cut the epic clean through.

“...Your body is hurt; proper nutrition matters most. Ah—right. Did the scars knit well?”

“Oh—Master, look at this.”

Qing—flip—dared, before her own master, to strip off a layer and show her scars.

Ximen Surin’s face went stone.

From shoulder to the opposite thigh.

Hearing it had been awful; seeing the thick-raised, glaring seam—unspeakable.

Gods—how much must it have hurt.

Her chest cinched tight.

Truth be told, even without scars, this would freeze a master’s face.

A disciple—man or woman—baring the body before a teacher—that’s a very big problem.

“Master, isn’t it... kind of cool?”

Her eyebrow twitched.

Fury-meter—critical.

“There’s this adorable brat named Hyang—Jegal Hyang—she said it’s super cool. Like a veteran war-horse. Gives me a real masterly air.”

Eyebrows—twitch-twitch.

A “masterly air,” is it.

Exactly the way Unorthodox fools think—plenty of idiots slice their own faces for style. Her disciple’s words were right at that level.

And even if someone humors you with “cool,” what then?

Will a woman flaunt scars by shoving her naked body in faces?

Her fist keened like a bead string.

Endure. Endure. Punishment can wait until she’s healed. Endure.

“So—if I just leave the wound like this, without removing the scar—”

Crack.

Crash.

The sound of the fury-meter blowing.

Pent-up wrath screamed down at Qing’s head—

Whap!!!

The mightiest solar force in the world—the fundamental unit of the realm cleaving, fissioning—

primordial destruction—an awe-inspiring eruption.