Chapter 568: Recuperation Trip (13)

When Ximen Surin thought “ah—wait,” it was already after the deed was done.

Now that her disciple had reached the Flower Realm, her rebound was no joke; the instant Surin’s knuckles thudded in, a sting and a numb ache surged up at once—

“Grk!”

A scream burst out that defied description.

And Ximen Surin thought—where had this child begun to go wrong?

At first, she’d been elegant and demure, acquiring the poise of a proper lady as time went on.

But now?

If you’re going to scream, at least make it a pretty, graceful “kyak,” or just a plain old “aaagh.”

Even her disciple’s scream was frivolous—what on earth.

Qing clutched her head and flopped over.

To anyone who saw it, it would look like her master wasn’t a master at all but some sworn enemy. A truly ghastly sight.

A full-grown disciple, a woman’s body bare, sprawled out.

Knees yanked tight to her chest, shoulders hunched, curled like a pill bug and shivering.

“Ahem. That—enough theatrics.”

Ximen Surin was a little rattled.

Honestly? Was this really something to hurt this much?

Ideation is the act of bending the world’s law to fit yourself; that’s why people fall like meteors, why space rakes itself open after a blade has passed, why even the same forehead flick lands with different weight on a man and on a woman.

Which is to say, Ximen Surin’s nuclear forehead flick is, in truth, nuclear fusion limited to men—its sweetness lies in how its power shifts by sex.

But what Qing felt was—gasp.

When it hurts too much, you think nothing at all.

In extremity, instinct automatically takes the most natural posture; you curl like a child in the womb and tremble, nothing else to do.

She wandered a long while in selfless pain, and the very first thought when she came back was:

Ah, so this is Ideation—hurts like mad.

No wonder my skull felt intact yet pain just kept slamming me.

Master, I mean, who in the world batters their disciple with Ideation.

Worse—why does a single layered, nuclear forehead flick bring two kinds of pain: prickling and a splitting crack?

Because Ideation discriminates between male and female, the world as judge ruled: what is this? This odd thing?

Ambiguous—fine, count it as both. Award all of it.

I never realized back when I was super-transcendent, but now that I’m in the Flower Realm, I see how uncanny this one move is.

And knowing what’s coming always makes it hurt more.

“Are you going to lie there like that?”

Ximen Surin’s brow twitched.

Why was this brat making such a fuss?

So much for the elegant poise of a lady master.

Some time back she’d started wheedling and rubbing up to her in private like a seven-year-old; you couldn’t tell if she was a disciple or a daughter—and no, even a daughter wouldn’t carry on this shamelessly.

“I—I mean it—ow— it really hurts....”

“Sigh... Come here.”

Ximen Surin let out a deep breath and called her over.

And the disciple wriggled and crawled right into her arms.

Keep indulging her like this and of course the coddling will get worse.

But the moment Ximen Surin looked at this impudent hussy’s state, her anger sank on its own; pity raised its head; her heart warmed and melted to a soft, toasty ooze.

As she gently stroked her disciple’s soft hair, she herself didn’t know if this was a disciple or if she was raising a child—and all the while the corners of her lips went loose and curved without her noticing.

“Look at you, tears hanging. What warrior sheds tears because she hurts? I never heard that my disciple bawls on the battlefield.”

“It really does hurt...”

“Oh, you thing.”

Fine. She was probably just heartsore because her master hit her.

Maybe she’d been too harsh with a mouthy brat who blurts whatever comes to mind—no, she had. It was always “drop the nuke first, feel sorry after.”

“Master, then—may I keep the scar?”

“You still won’t come to your senses.”

“But scars are cool....”

“Sigh. Do as you please.”

Ximen Surin finally released a long breath.

From an elder’s vantage, it’s a choice the disciple will regret without fail later.

She’ll say she should have erased it while she could.

Old wounds can’t be cleared away even with the best scar-remedy; short of Remolding the Bones or stepping into the Translucent Realm and reversing age with returning-youth, the only way is to slice the scar out and coax new flesh.

Still—she wants it.

If she regrets it later, maybe she’ll reflect on this rashness and grow up; it might even become the secular motive that pushes her into the Translucent Realm.

Thus, Qing was granted her scar!

One could say it was a great achievement, wrung at the price of a skull-splitting pain.

Only—Qing underestimated her own body.

She refused treatment, saying she’d ask her master first before deciding whether to keep or erase the scar, but that was far too glib about Sichuan’s wicked woman, Tang Nana.

She failed to notice the malice that ignores even a best friend’s words. Tang Nana crept in at night to slip medicine—and paused. Hm. Why did the scar look like it was thinning away? Leave it and it’ll vanish.

Rare, but such a constitution exists.

To be sure, she examined it strictly over the journey and concluded: if left alone, it will disappear.

So she only pretended to give up nicely.

In short, the scar will vanish.

Qing took a beating for nothing.

And—as always—Qing won’t know.

“You—enough. Back off now.”

“Can’t I stay like this a little longer? It still hurts. Is that—um—a bump?”

Ximen Surin hesitated. It was, in fact, swelling.

“What kind of carry-on is this? Can’t you at least get dressed? Even if not that, what shameless spectacle is this for a grown woman? I dread someone seeing.”

“Oh, come on—what’s there to be shy about now? Anyone can see we’re master and disciple. It’s not like there’s anything they haven’t seen anyway. Hehe.”

Ximen Surin hesitated again.

So the girl had lost all sense of shame—and now she saw it was all her own fault.

She’d let that bustling body go about all too bare; in gaining protective qi, the girl had lost shame.

Had I known she’d rise to the Flower Realm like this, I would have kept her plain. My greed has birthed a mighty trouble.

Strictly speaking, Ximen Surin had no need to blame herself.

Otherwise Qing would already be a departed soul; even this “scar” wasn’t a scar but a diagonal slice that would have sent her beyond death—final end, return, or the start of this cycle, who could say.

In the end, despite her disapproving face, Ximen Surin couldn’t push her away and only ruffled her hair.

Coddling grows because someone accepts it—so it must be accepted.

****

Shandong Province, Jiaozhou County. The Shandong Provincial Command.

That Provincial Command fields a thousand troops on each flank and a thousand at the center—five thousand in all—the Central Plains’ largest military facility by organization.

And in the deep of night, a suspicious figure in coal-black slipped across the Command.

In the Central Plains they call it night-walker blacks: functional clothing for roaming after dark without being noticed.

It’s also the preferred outfit of thieves, assassins, robbers, and rapists, making it the last thing you want to meet at night.

A camp that houses a thousand has iron patrols with no gaps, yet the black-clad figure slid in by riding roof shadows with practiced ease.

Trace the figure’s route, and the destination takes shape:

the largest residence—the private quarters and office of the Provincial Commander who runs the Command.

The intruder scaled the high wall in silence, flowed over roof tiles, and slipped down into the compound.

Rrrrnnk—rrrnnk.

On a massive bed, a thunderous snore.

It was the booming racket of Grand General Wang Ssangryong, Provincial Commander of Shandong.

The black-clad figure stood quietly by the bed and looked down, while Wang Ssangryong, none the wiser, snored on in dreamland.

The intruder drew a dagger without a sound.

The blade, painted dull to kill its shine, still threw a cold, blue edge even in blackness.

And the assassin’s knife slid quietly under Wang Ssangryong’s jaw.

“Kh—!”

“Shh.”

The intruder raised a finger to their lips.

Wang Ssangryong snapped awake under the chill killing intent crushing his throat; his eyes fluttered violently as he signaled assent.

“Provincial Commander of Shandong, Wang Ssangryong. That you?”

“Y-yes. I don’t know what business you have—but no, I’ll pay double—no, triple. So put that blade—”

And the blade actually withdrew.

“My apologies for the discourtesy.”

Wang Ssangryong was momentarily nonplussed.

He’d only said that to say something—what kind of assassin backs off and turns polite because he offered more money?

But only for a moment. He soon realized his mistake.

“I am a Grand Director of the Eastern Depot, honored to serve Her Majesty the Empress. The world has eyes, so I was compelled to visit in secret. I beg your pardon.”

Wang Ssangryong’s head spun.

Grand Director of the Eastern Depot—that’s a great lord.

By law the rank might be lower, but that clout isn’t measured by rank. Even a Provincial Commander could be swept aside by such a man.

And a great lord was using honorific humility with him?

Wang Ssangryong tested the waters.

“A-hem. So you are a great lord.”

“The law assigns ranks; by that law I am but a servant. Please lower your speech.”

Wang Ssangryong’s face went slack with delight.

“A-hem. The army is a world apart; how could we weigh high and low by rank alone? How could I be discourteous to my lord?”

He did not, however, actually lower his speech.

Arrogance makes needless enemies; why risk offense by talking down?

“Soon the Palace will call you to account—for mobilizing troops in private over a mere martial man of the rivers-and-lakes. At the height of the agricultural season, you emptied your forces and harmed the state; the intent is to announce this disloyalty to the realm and punish it heavily.”

“The guilty keep no words. I, a soldier, committed disloyalty; I, your servant, will take what comes.”

Yet the smile on Wang Ssangryong’s face could not be hidden.

Why? Was he some perverse idealist who yearned for self-destruction?

“But as I see it, that martial man saved your child’s life, and the Grand General only sought to repay a parent’s debt—the pull of Heaven’s bonds. Taking that into account, your office will likely be lifted, and you will be sent back to the mountains and rivers.”

“Mm. So it will be.”

“Yet is your son not gifted and famously filial? Last night I dreamed: your son gladly petitions the throne, pleading to pay with his own life for his father’s crime. Heaven is moved, and imposes a punishment that has him stand in your place to carry out your duties—thus repaying the father’s guilt.”

“What a strange dream.”

“So do not fret overmuch. Your loyal heart is already recognized; you have received the axe of command, and you may at any time be summoned again to lead. I hear the Provincial Commander in Hubei is already deep in age and illness. Even Heaven frets: men fit to command ten thousand are rare and precious in this world.”

“Ah dear. May he recover swiftly.”

Wang Ssangryong’s face bloomed with smiles.

The Grand Director of the Eastern Depot was spelling it out:

You step down; your son becomes Grand General.

Wait quietly—we’ll plant you in another post. Take a good, long rest and enjoy your leave.

So serving Her Majesty had been the chance of a lifetime! No wonder last night’s dream felt auspicious!

As for himself—City Commander, Provincial Commander, what’s the difference.

But his son?

A Grand General, copied and pasted!

Our house will be the house of twin Grand Generals; the army is twenty thousand strong; and Her Majesty is a divine being!

This is grace—Her Majesty chose me, and by coming to me made me a loyal servant.

Even tonight, her favor brushes across the night sky.

I, Wang Ssangryong, will give my whole life to serve.

It was the moment Wang Ssangryong’s loyalty detonated.