Chapter 571: Toward That Remote, Rural Backwater (3)

From the deck, looking back at Goddess Peak didn’t stir much of anything.

Because it’s just the hill behind my house....

From down here it only looks tiny, that’s all.

Of all the Divine Lady’s Gate buildings tucked out of sight behind the summit of Goddess Peak, the one and only structure facing the Yangtze River was Qing’s cliff hut.

It does have a decently wide front yard, so of course you couldn’t possibly spot it from below just by craning your neck.

If I just stayed on the boat and then scrambled up the cliff, maybe I could get home a little faster.

If I felt like climbing, I could pick a day and scale it, sure—but the strata jut reverse-steep, rougher than vertical, so... why.

A hundred-twenty-odd ri of river called Qutang, with high walls to either side, and then for a brief stretch the tight gorge opens into gentle spines or scattered flats that give you a breath of space.

Only for a moment, though.

The channel pinches again and the cliffs pile higher still—this is the Qutang Gorge, the gate known across the Central Plains as Qutang Pass.

They say the narrowest run of water here is only twelve jang across, while the highest wall rises to four hundred jang.

Drifting there by boat and tipping your head back, the view presses down like the land itself has heaved up to clamp you—one of the world’s peerless sights.

And once you slip that short forty-odd ri of Qutang water?

Regrettably, past that the heights fall short and the faces of the cliffs lose their knife-edge, so it blurs into one of those “have I seen this or not” strings of scenery.

Break out of the mountains and you’re in Sichuan.

Sichuan is vast—won’t it always be in a dead heat with Qinghai for largest footprint among the Central Plains’ provinces?

There’s still a long, long way to go.

On the way from Chongqing County to the provincial capital, Chengdu, three long mountain spines bar the path, so we ride the upper Yangtze current toward Hechuan.

And Qing in the meantime?

She’s luxuriating—lying down or sitting up, always eating meals on time and then snacking at all hours.

Meals come so heavy the table legs should snap; no matter how much we eat, with tolls waived on this kind of cargo, it’s all profit anyway.

On top of that, the snacks alone make a big load: dried fruit, candied fruit, dry biscuits, honey cakes, sugar, and every kind of meat—an inexhaustible cornucopia, a bottomless snack pouch, that keeps spilling more no matter how much we eat.

So today, too, she eats a heaping spread, and then—because eating and lying down is life’s greatest joy—Qing enjoys her perfectly natural right once again.

On an ordinary day Peng Daesan would grumble, If you’ve eaten, move a little, but a patient’s duty is to lie still and rest, isn’t it.

Tang Nana strokes Qing’s taut, swelling belly, then pokes it, then pinches the skin and pulls that soft belly-fat out long—and then reaches a shocking conclusion.

“What is this? How do you eat that much and not gain weight? Your belly’s just distended—you haven’t put on an ounce.”

“Maybe she just doesn’t gain weight.”

“That can’t be. I only picked at your leftovers and I put on weight. This is unfair. Qing, how can you do this to me?”

Indeed, Tang Nana has put on a fair bit.

Even though she’s always had a round, cute face, the once-slender jawline has softened nicely, and that discreetly full bust has rounded a little more.

From Qing’s point of view—well, she’s cute, so isn’t that fine? She used to be too skinny; this looks exactly right.

Qing was about to offer such comfort when—

“It’s fine.”

An unexpected answer—from Seol Iri.

Those two only have to meet eyes and the chill wind whistles.

“Chill wind whistles” isn’t a metaphor for their vibes; Seol Iri literally keeps spilling cold air.

After she discovered that Tang Nana—who grew up in warm Sichuan—actually gets cold easily, she’s been quietly lowering the room temperature, day after day.

Qing is immune to cold; Gyeon Pohee, born of that permafrost called the Heavenly City of Tianshan, is naturally cold-hardy; Peng Daesan doesn’t share a room with them and doesn’t seem the type to catch a chill anyway.

Qing is inherently cold-hardy, but with the Ice Technique in play she’s dull to cold itself.

Only when I noticed, Huh? Why is the room chilly? did I warn that she shouldn’t—but then Tang Nana, who had been clenching her teeth and shivering in silence out of stubbornness, finally breathed a long sigh of relief.

And now Gunyeong chimes in to back Nana up?

What, kids really do bond by fighting—hate gives roots to affection?

So the right call was to let them scrap—

“What? What’s ‘fine’ supposed to mean?”

“It’s not my fat. Fatty. Pig. Pudgy.”

“You little—! I have had it.”

For the record, Seol Iri doesn’t gain weight either.

She’s a stealthy big eater who nibbles for ages, and even though she’s been whittling down Qing’s snacks bite by bite, that willowy figure hasn’t changed a bit.

People from the Ice Palace just don’t put on weight, apparently.

To be fair, Tang Nana’s carelessness is the real culprit.

San goes to the deck and swings the blade whenever there’s a free hour; Hee-mae—maybe because food was scarce in the Heavenly City—naturally eats little.

Gunyeong spends most of every day with eyes closed, meditating and storing energy—indifferent to “beautiful scenery” or any of that—and diligently bulking up that meager, pathetic inner strength.

And Nana?

She just sticks to Qing’s side; when a meal comes, she eats; when there are snacks, she snacks; chattering at Qing’s shoulder.

That one looks cool—that’s so pretty—hey, that one looks like a turtle, that one like a crane—she’s been genuinely enjoying the trip, hasn’t she.

From Qing’s point of view, you couldn’t ask for a better companion: a precious friend who cuts the boredom of lying around and being cuddled.

So of course she put on weight....

Tang Nana can plead her case.

Even if she wanted to toss throwing needles, she can’t go punching other people’s hulls full of holes; to cultivate Poison Mastery, she needs the clan’s secret toxics.

You can’t just ingest any random poison and have it all absorbed as poison arts.

And poison stock is a consumable—use it and it runs down—so she can’t go swinging poison jars and fans around being wasteful.

Of course, it’s all just a coward’s excuse.

Thus: eleven full days by boat.

Before we knew it, endless horizons to left and right.

Sichuan’s fertile plain stretches straight out, so broad you can’t even pick out a single small hill, and your chest loosens with the open air.

For Qing—given where she’s from—this is the stranger view, and it hits her as gorgeous.

Back home, her city’s skyline is packed tight with high-rises that wall off the sky, and even when you leave the city there are always those round, cute little mountains poking up in the distance, so she’s never really seen a flat earth that runs away to the horizon.

Disembark from the boat, and at last—Hechuan!

Eleven days riding up the Yangtze is milking pure honey; we just ate those blade-like badlands of infamous Shu-Han that people call unconquerable—raw.

We took carriages and drifted slow along the fine imperial road; after five days, the bustling avenues of Chengdu came into view.

And from there it was ten days and six more to pass through the Tang Family’s front gate.

The usual courtesies for visiting a friend’s house.

First, pay respects to the Head of House; then the evening banquet—oddities and rarities without end—and the Heavenly Flower Sword’s fiery dining feats on infinite repeat. Is this a human or a feed bag? A glutton’s performance of shoving without chewing.

And then, wouldn’t the Tang family’s ladies (that famously harmonious circle of wives and concubines) invite the women to tea?

Except—

“Child, show some sense. Your father’s birthday is at the start of the year, and you’re going to Qinghai now?”

“Ah—ah.”

Tang Nana flinched.

“They say a daughter you raise up is a stranger in the end.”

“We cherished our one and only precious girl like a jewel, and what comes out of her mouth right before her father’s birthday is: I’ll trot off to the countryside with my friend. Oh, Heavenly Flower Sword—pardon us. You did nothing wrong.”

“It’s because this little Nana lacks manners. Heavenly Flower Sword, you’ve had such trouble indulging her.”

“We worry because the child has no friends, and thanks to you, Heavenly Flower Sword, how much we’ve sighed in relief. But still the girl is like this. You feather-brained thing.”

“C-couldn’t she just—just go and get back quickly...?”

“Does that make any sense? And how will she re-enter Sichuan?”

“Heavenly Flower Sword—if, mm, if it’s all right, what about staying through the eighth day of the New Year? It’s just that, mm, in that case you likely couldn’t cross the ranges until spring next year.”

It’s already past mid-November.

From mid-Twelfth Month, snow falls and the world freezes, and climbing into Qinghai becomes hard.

So if you’re going, you go now, or you wait until after mid-March.

Coming back is easier—you can drop through Gansu along the relatively gentle Namnyeong downs.

But the path from Sichuan to Gansu is that famous Shu Road, the Sword Gate sits there—the worst pass in the Central Plains—so whether you aim straight for Qinghai or swing wide through Gansu, both routes will soon choke off.

Qing understood what the mothers meant.

Saying “no” won’t stop the She-Devil of Sichuan.

Whether or not it’s the Head Elder’s birthday, she’ll plainly force her way to tag along—clear as day.

So telling Qing as well is really this: If you’re going, pry our girl loose and leave her here, please.

More than that, their true intent was: It’s dangerous now; rest at the Tang estate for this year and climb in spring.

To put it plain: Don’t go suffer climbing mountains in winter. Rest and play well, then go. If you must go, could you please talk her down?

Their concern—urging a good long rest before the ascent—was appreciated; but in that case it’d be better to take a boat back and winter at Divine Lady’s Gate.

We’ve come this far; turning back is awkward.

So what now.

“Qing, you’re not going to leave me, right?”

“Nana lives here. I’m going.”

“Hey—that’s not... that’s not a thing! I’m going too! I’m going! I am going!”

“But this touches the bonds of parent and child.... Shouldn’t you celebrate your father’s birthday?”

“Father’s birthday will be next year, and the year after, and the year after that—but going to Qinghai with Qing is only this once. You don’t know which one matters more to me right now?”

“Mm? How could I... mm. No.”

Qing swallowed the words that had leapt to the tip of her tongue.

She almost said, And can you guarantee your father will be there next year, or the year after, or the year after that?

She meant, Cherish him while he’s here, but it’s a sticky thing to say aloud.

“You should stay home. Your father dotes on you most.”

“Because he dotes on me, won’t he understand?”

“Hey. Don’t hurt his feelings.”

“Kh—Qing, how—how can you—how can you do this to me! I hate you! I’m going to hate you!”

At that, Seol Iri nodded.

“Lady Ximen. I’ll come to your bedroom tonight.”

The three of us have been rotating in pairs from side to side; seems tonight was Nana and Hee-mae’s turn.

“What? Hey, where do you think you’re cutting the line.”

“It’s not cutting. You just said no.”

“I did not say no. Um, Qing? C-could you let it slide this once? Just once? Please? Just this once let me go with you, and I’ll start taking care of Father’s birthday next time. Please?”

And then, the voice of one of Nana’s mothers flickered through her head.

They say raising a daughter does you no good.

Second? Third? Hard to say—there are five of them, so the pecking order is a blur.

Nana, honestly, is drowning in blessings.

She has no fewer than five mothers who each look on her with genuine affection—and while she’s drinking that fivefold love, she’s thinking of running off on a trip with her friend.

In truth, the mothers see Nana most clearly; why else would they roundabout ask Qing?

“No. You’re not included. I have no intention of including you. Go home quickly—no, this is your home. Anyway.”

Qing answered, firm.