Chapter 577: Toward That Remote, Rural Backwater (9)

Their gazes clash in the space between them.

Qing and the man wear the same expression.

What is this—am I seeing things?

Pure, dumbfounded, why in the world are you here?

With the flap of hems, three people drop down beside Qing.

At that, the man roasting a person’s flesh startles, his face twisting.

“Big Sis? You know him?”

“Huh? I mean, I do know him.”

“A mad monk, then.”

Peng Daesan mutters as he draws his blade.

Beneath the words, the tension lands; Gyeon Pohee and Seol Iri naturally settle into guarded stances.

The mad monk—skinny from the fat-and-skinny idiot pair—formerly teamed with the fat one.

So a four-on-one standoff hangs for a beat, and then—whoosh—fat drips, the campfire flares, and the meat catches flame.

“###!”

With a plateau curse, the mad monk windmills the roasting meat—a human forearm—through air to slap out the flame.

“Damn Central Plains hussy! Burn a man’s offering and not even the Buddha forgives! Burn the meat and it ruins the flavor! This karma I’ll etch into my house precepts for a thousand ten-thousand generations!”

The same wretched Central Plains tongue he always jabbers in.

Or else I should praise a pure barbarian for his “good” Central Plains speech.

He protests the now-singed meat, but only for a moment. With a neatly wicked slice he trims off the scorched part, then sets the flesh spinning again above the fire.

And Qing’s party is beneath his notice; all his zeal is fixed on the straight fire-grill of a human.

As if he truly doesn’t care at all.

When I first saw this crazy stick of a monk, I thought he still hadn’t given up on the Absorbing Essence Devil Art and had somehow tailed me all the way out here.

“Qing, what do you want to do?”

“Mm. Doesn’t feel like he wants a fight.”

Qing looks at the corpse rolling by the mad monk’s side.

The whole body is caved in—hideous—and, mm, looking closely, seems she was a woman.

At a glance it’s grounds for on-the-spot execution of a caught-in-the-act criminal.

Qing decides to speak first.

“Hey, what is this—why are you roasting a person? Planning to eat her? Can a monk eat people?”

“Not a person!”

“I have eyes too, you know.”

Qing points at the ruined corpse.

The mad monk snaps.

“Foolish woman! Pluck out those useless eyes that serve no function! A person’s shape not proof it is person. No person’s heart, then person-not-person—beast, beast-not-beast—filthy beast unfit even to be beast. This bitch is a vile brute that eats people.”

“So you’re saying this woman here is a cannibal, therefore not a person?”

“You hear woman’s words and believe as-is. Why possess a head you never use? Throw it away with your eyes. ‘Eat someone’ is figurative speech—you ignorant woman don’t understand.”

“Then what is it?”

“I commend your ignorance. But my heart vast as the blue heaven and great sea, so I will understand the foolish female being. This brute leads a specialty band of thieves—kills people to take wealth. Lives by killing and eating people. Eats people. Does that narrow, petty mind grasp it now?”

The words are a wreck, yet somehow easy to understand; I can’t claim he speaks the Central Plains tongue well, yet neither can I say he can’t.

“Ah, so she’s a brigand, is that it?”

And with that, the deceased “lady” suffers a brisk posthumous demotion to “this thing.”

Qing thinks a moment.

No reason not to believe him.

He’s at least a Flower Realm master.

He’s seen the Dokgo Nine Sword Forms, but he doesn’t know I’m Flower Realm too; thinking himself above me, he has no need to lie to talk his way out.

And after confirming it’s me, he dropped all interest and returned to his straight fire-grill—meaning he doesn’t care whether we watch or not. He’s not acting like someone worried I’ll spread word.

In short, no need for him to lie.

“But even if she’s not ‘a person,’ can a monk eat—well—meat?”

“Only you Central Plains fake-shaven frauds don’t eat meat. The Buddha ate meat; humans eat meat and thus grow hearty and live long without illness. Your Central Plains shavelings ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) don’t eat meat because your emperor commanded it. Afraid of worldly punishment, you distort the Buddha’s words—impious, fraudulent cult level. So I pity Central Plains Buddhists.”

“Eh.”

Qing shoots a is that even true? look at Gyeon Pohee; meeting her eyes, Pohee tilts her head.

Mm. Why did I look at Hee-mae? She wouldn’t know anyway.

Qing slides her gaze aside—Seol Iri’s lovely face, Gunyeong passes—then locks squarely with Peng Daesan.

It’s a check: is what he just said correct?

Hee-mae and Gunyeong wouldn’t know; the one most likely to is Peng Daesan.

However—

“I don’t make a hobby of reading sutras.”

“Great. No one in my party is smart.”

Peng Daesan’s brow twitches thinly, but since he doesn’t know either, he gives no real reaction.

“Mm. So because she’s a brigand, she lacks the qualifications of a person and counts as a beast, and since meat from a beast is okay, you’re grilling and eating it?”

“Exactly so.”

“Mm, still—don’t most people not eat it? Beast or not, isn’t it, how to say it, filthy and low?”

“This is precisely my greatness. With preaching I wrought a miracle where an ignorant wench became a person. It is like the Buddha’s greatness in guiding living beings. I do not desire it either, but I am hungry; to live I must eat. An unavoidable presumptuous tragedy, yet a sorrow that follows the order of the world.”

“Mm. So you normally don’t eat it? Then toss it. Hey, Puppy. Want some ration porridge instead?”

“Oh! The Central Plains woman has awakened compassion—convert at once to the Buddha! I confer precepts immediately. Your dharma name is ### # #### ##!”

Qing’s face sours hard.

It sounds grand in the plateau tongue, but thanks to my universal translation, I understand all speech.

“No. How can a person’s dharma name be ‘Wise Dairy Cow’? You think I won’t get it if you say it in the plateau language?”

“How do you comprehend our noble, subtle, most excellent tongue? That your base, violent Han blood understands is astonishing! Still, your wisdom lacks. The meaning is to pile wisdom as great as those vast udders of yours. Also, the cow is a sacred beast.”

The moment I offer food, “ignorant Central Plains bitch” upgrades to “you” and other titles—an astounding promotion.

“Enough. Put that away.”

“I worked hard roasting it—taste once. Truth is, long I have been curious. How delicious must it be that you Central Plains folk go mad for it?”

Regrettably, I have no solid rebuttal.

There aren’t just one or two human-eaters out there.

“Enough—put it away. Eat human flesh and, if luck is foul, you can catch a disease that leaves holes pocking your brain, you know?”

At that, whip—the mad monk instantly flings aside the forearm he’d been doting over.

“What, you dump it the instant I say you could get sick.”

“I am particularly unlucky. I do not do acts that rely on fortune. Therefore you, prepare my offering quickly. A peerless chance to stack merit.”

If a starving man is on the verge of eating human, I can spare him a meal.

I pull a pot from the pack; we’ve already used up the yak’s milk, so it’s just water with rations stirred in and boiled.

I rip in strips of beef and lamb jerky; let it simmer down—done.

If he truly was hungry, he proves it: parked by the fire, he can’t peel his eyes from the pot, gulping saliva.

Qing slips in a quiet question.

“Have you decided to give up the Absorbing Essence Devil Art?”

“I saw your martial art. Proof there exists a study that needs no such ‘divine skill’. Thus you proved the absence of that ‘divine skill.’”

Music to my ears.

My party’s shoulders ease; their stiff faces loosen—so they’ve been taut this whole time.

But only for a moment.

“However.”

With the next word, shoulders go tight again.

Everyone but Qing, of course.

Now that I’m also Flower Realm, with two super-transcendent trinkets on our side and a decorative Bamboo Wife besides, he’s hardly someone to tense up over.

“You tricked me thoroughly. Because of you, I wasted time. That is your foolishness in failing to prove it sooner. But I paid for that sin with my foolishness.”

He’s somehow talking like I deceived him and he got duped.

But if you’re fooled, that’s on you.

“That’s pretty ridiculous, but since you say you won’t make it a grievance, I’ll let it pass. Anyway, I heard a band of brigands is rampaging nearby. You caught only this one? Because you were hungry?”

“Paltry brigand wit. When they meet a master, they play lewd tricks. They feign a pious heart seeking help and offering their body as alms. But in the act, they scheme to seize the moment. I pierced the truth, so without delay I gifted her the Precious Big Handprint.”

“Ah. I get it.”

Qing looks the woman’s corpse over again. The dents and hollows all over must be from that blood-red Big Handprint.

So the rest ran; the mad monk didn’t bother to chase—whether from hunger or apathy, who knows.

An old saying in the martial world: beware women, children, old men—and the great Heaven-and-Earth Great Bearing Heavenly Flower Sword. Among these, this was the threat category “woman.”

Qing’s had one try it on her too.

What was she in that cult—called herself Xi Shi? She ran up half-naked begging for help, so I punched through her heart on the spot.

Thinking back, I didn’t even know who she was; wasn’t “evil therefore cut” a bit hasty?

Of course, the thrill of felling evildoers is a joy then and now, but I might have been too into it that time.

And I was desperate about exchanging for good karma.

As it turned out, she was indeed a trafficker and it was a ploy for abduction, so I wasn’t wrong, was I?

“Eh. Even with a monk watching, they try that?”

“A woman’s beauty fell short of my greatness. I am not an idiot who charges at any hole a woman has. At minimum, only a woman who clumsily imitates you could make my manhood rise.”

“No, that’s not it—can a monk even do that? Where did you sell your precept against illicit sex?”

“Foolish you. ‘No illicit sex’ does not mean ‘be a eunuch.’ Illicit sex is crooked coupling—forcing or mating with the mate of another—beast behavior. Humans are not beasts.”

For someone who chased me around for a devil art, he can sound unexpectedly sane. Only—

“Eh. So a monk can sleep with a woman?”

“Our Buddha permits it. Of course, we have many Buddhas. Some Buddhas prefer eunuchs. Central Plains Buddhas do so. But you have won a golden chance to take refuge in our great Buddha. Our Buddha smiles broadly even if you, with your husband, commit however lewd an act, tangled and slick. Convert now and, as a special, a precious dharma name free of charge. If the plateau name is hard, then a Central Plains name—Bright Wisdom Dairy Cow. A compassion never seen in this world, an astonishing mercy—a chance to depart this world.”

“‘Bright Wisdom’ and ‘Dairy Cow.’”

“With a dharma name like that, I’ll never convert.”

“I cannot comprehend you. Such a blessed name—most precious.”

Not a joke or harassment; he is dead serious that it’s good.

Even Qing pauses to wonder:

Is this the common sensibility of plateau folk, or just this mad monk’s? If I meet another plateau monk later, I should quietly ask.

“Big Sis, you know him?”

“Ah. I haven’t even introduced him. This is my—my—older sister—phew. You know the rest, right? And this one is the mad monk called, um, what was it—Fishcake Three-Combo?”

“Wow, must really love fishcake.”

“Oh! How did you know I love fishcake?”

Everyone but those two wears the same face.

What is this? What kind of conversation is that?

People are indulgent with foreigners’ pronunciation by default.

Even if it’s me, if those western red-haired devils with tawny skin and bristling coarse hair called me Ching, Chenk, Ch’ong, Chuang, Chieng in their rolling western way, I’d let it slide.

Likewise, whether he’s “Amukhablap” or “Fishcake Three-Combo,” I just take it as him calling himself.

Meanwhile, the porridge smell starts to drift.

No yak’s milk to enrich it, so it doesn’t smell that good.

He said he was hungry; the moment I ladle him a brimming bowl, he shovels it in, then exclaims:

“Truly a paltry flavor! Yet ferociously delicious! When famine rages within, even poor fare is a delicacy! The Buddha’s words are ever true! Your offering is, in this moment, transmuted into merit!”

So is that tasty or not?

Either way, I catch the gratitude.

Three eat heartily, one eats lightly, and Peng Daesan wears a sickened look.

Every meal being ration porridge, Peng is at the point of retching from the smell alone.

But Qing is happy with anything edible, and Seol Iri is a porridge-lover at the level of addiction.

As for Gyeon Pohee, she never eats much to begin with; she simply watches her little sister eat well and flicks extra jerky chunks into her bowl.

“Mm. So—you’re heading back to the plateau now, right?”

“Indeed. A day north of here lies Hainan. You will go there as well. My wisdom has already seen through you.”

“You don’t need to get as far as ‘wisdom’—it’s the only place to go anyway, isn’t it?”

He ignores that cleanly and continues.

“Therefore—again—a wondrous chance. Attend upon me and stack merit. In the Pure Land the Buddhas will lavish praise and you will be reborn as human at once—your future decided here.”

“Mm.”

Qing glances around at her friends.

I get that he bears no malice.

Even so, he’s smeared in bad karma, and I don’t want to travel with a fiend who hunted a devil art.

My friends won’t either.

Then a thought occurs.

“Mm. How about this—Hainan is a mess with brigands, so we’re planning to clean them up. If Fishcake Three-Combo helps, wouldn’t that be the merit you keep going on about?”

At that, the mad monk slaps both thighs—just hide stuck on bone.

“Admirable! Why linger in the dusty world? Rescuing beasts is my vocation!”

Then, with a solemn face, he continues:

“However—wrong. That would not be I helping you lowly beings. You will help me. Agree, and you obtain a chance to stack merit.”