Chapter 581: Let’s Kill the Bandits (3)

Night deepened as they returned to that first mountain.

Her gut churned—straight hunger—and because she’d practiced the Birth-Heart Formula of the Eon Family Fist, the hunger had doubled.

Now she saw it: far, far below, about midway down the mountainside, just beyond a cliff or a steep ridge, a shy spill of firelight.

Of course—if you’ve set a redoubt, you keep a fire and a watch.

They hadn’t spotted it in daylight; that’s the “space behind the pillar” principle.

The drop concealed more space than expected; naturally you wouldn’t see it from below.

If it was also hidden from above, it truly was fine terrain for a bandit camp.

“I go first because I am already going. Process of judging whether they are beasts or humans; you Central Plains wretches circle after the great me’s back. Sweeping up the bugs who run—that much even a dog raised by the main temple can do. Thus you prove yourselves worse than dogs.”

“Eh—wait—”

Before Qing could stop him, Amukhablap flicked his body and leapt down.

“Guys, it might be a trap, so if it goes sideways we pull back immediately, okay? For now, don’t circle—watch from right above. If it smells wrong, I’ll carry Iri. If it starts to go weird, jump into my arms. Got it?”

“Yes. I’ll jump in.”

So the party hopped off a low cliff and sprinted downhill,

chasing the lantern already bounding far ahead.

Five brick-kiln buildings stacked into walls, and more than ten thick, oversized seasonal tents of the long-tribe—big enough to hold a settlement: a sizable camp, well set.

Qing peeked with just her head over a steep rise.

In that moment a monk dropped into the gap.

Qing couldn’t tell at a glance, but to Qinghai folk the hem of his robe marked a lama monk.

Men clustered before a great blaze—needed on a cold night—sprang up when a lama monk fell from the sky.

But a hush fell as they faced each other, and Qing’s brow dug deep.

That bastard—called it.

She was about to signal a retreat.

Amukhablap’s mouth opened and out rolled a strange pronunciation; not Central Plains speech, but not beyond understanding.

Qing’s ears pricked; with beyond-human hearing she listened.

“[What are you, are you not plateau folk?]”

“[Reverend, what brings you? Are you perhaps lost?]”

“[Ahem. I came because I heard there was a lawless brigand band, but now I see I’ve likely found the wrong place.]”

The men exchanged bland looks.

“[Ha-ha, we are newly opening a village here. Mm, have you eaten? Might we be permitted to offer a meal?]”

Huh. A flash of Fishcake Three-Combo’s earlier babble—

something about bestowing the glory of offering alms to him—maybe it hadn’t been babble after all, judging by their attitude.

Grrrkk.

More than that—hunger, hunger struck.

It seemed this wasn’t a brigand base but a pioneer hamlet raised in a good spot.

If they were offering food, surely that petty old man wouldn’t try to eat it alone.

“[I must at once go and subdue those wicked brigands. Yet how could a Buddhist steal away your chance to offer alms? Bring me an old scrap gone cold to snatch and swallow.]”

“[Please, please wait just a moment. We’ll grill something quickly.]”

“[One cold piece would suffice. By the way, have you seen any suspicious types nearby?]”

You little shit.

Barley bread—barley loaves plateau folk eat—kneaded with yak’s milk, comes out tasting a bit like naan.

But a single piece of bread?

So he meant to scarf it alone.

At this point there was nothing to “suspect.”

Fishcake Three-Combo was just a weirdo.

I pegged him from the start, didn’t I?

Cranky, talks funny, karma blood-red, rude as hell, greedy for devil arts—yet with a monkish corner to him—he didn’t feel like the sort to spin some sly, elaborate plot.

So thought the woman who’d spent the whole time suspecting him.

If he wanted to be heard, he’d have shouted in Central Plains speech to lower their guard; using plateau speech to show “not brigands” served no purpose.

And he said he had to go hunt bandits?

At night? Without dinner—without dinner! starving—how can a person starve, even a hated enemy must not break a rice bowl—how can you make people starve—

“All right, let’s move. If we keep sitting up here and Fishcake Three-Combo spots us, he’ll sulk that we didn’t listen to him. With some dumb babble.”

Fishcake Three-Combo: cleared as innocent.

With a side of blockhead.

“Weren’t you just warning us he was suspicious and to be careful?”

“That mad-monk uncle says they’re not brigands and was about to search another mountain. We should stop him and kill the bandits.”

“You understand plateau speech?”

“Huh? Mm. Did I not say?”

“You did not.”

“Well, you didn’t ask? I mean—mountains—you didn’t ask that either. Do you have that little interest in me? How can you treat me like this? San, do you even know what I like, what hobbies I have? My first friend—our first time being friends—and you care so little about me?”

“Hmph. You like eating and your hobby is eating. No?”

“Ah. As expected, San. You knew. I’m slightly moved. Anyway. Let’s go.”

Fishcake Three-Combo seemed to belong among those a bit short—falling below the mean in brains.

Somehow it felt that way.

Of course, that wasn’t a big problem.

It’s not as if there aren’t low-IQ cases around me already; in order of stupidity there are three—Iri, Hee-mae, and Jangmyeong—so adding one more is about that level.

But should I put this uncle ahead of Iri, or behind Pohee?

No—if you grab a bandit and ask, “Are you a bandit?” what answer comes back?

“Yes, I am indeed a bandit. Your discernment and observation are superb. Might you be a detective? May I ask by what means you discovered it?”

As if you’d get some polite reply like that.

He’ll just say, “I’m not a bandit.”

Ask a dullard if he’s dull and he snaps back, “I’m smart.”

No one goes “How did you know, hehe,” like some happy simpleton.

Qing was about to start when a gentle tug caught her sleeve.

Seol Iri.

“Lady Ximen. What number am I?”

“Let’s see. San, then Jegal, then Elder Hwangbo, then those traders whose names I didn’t get—one, two, three, four—oh, then next Jangmyeong, and then Master and the Divine Lady’s Gate family... mm, somewhere between three and four hundred?”

“I don’t like that.”

“If Iri doesn’t like it, then what can you do? Reverse time to come meet me earlier? Come on, let’s go.”

So Qing, before Amukhablap noticed, scuttled around the camp’s flank.

Luckily, baking bread took time. They had enough of a window for Qing’s party to quietly set themselves on the slope below as if nothing were happening.

Soon Amukhablap came out of the camp and drew near; spotting Qing’s head popping up from a hummock, the mad monk stuffed the remaining bread into his mouth.

Everyone’s eyes turned crescent-moon round at the bottom.

Anyone would think we were about to snatch it.

Which, in fact, we were.

And not a single, “Have a taste.”

This kind of filthy greed existed back home too; not surprising.

“You declared you’d exterminate the brigand band, so why are you strolling out? And does it taste good to eat alone? Your cheeks are about to burst.”

“Not brigands. Good-hearted. Plateau folk. Unknown. Land, gulp. Laudable pioneers.”

“What pioneer hamlet when bandits are rampaging around? Those bastards are the bandits.”

“Foolish you, they are plateau folk. Among the Three Thousand Worlds there exist countless bloodlines, yet none love peace more; goodness itself. From past to future there has not been, not even one, a plateau-folk brigand.”

“Fishcake Three-Combo isn’t plateau folk; what kind of Westerner are you? You were spraying those blood-red handprints to break my legs—peace my ass.”

“Laudable you, in the past you were a great demon cursed with the Absorbing Essence Devil Art. That I gifted you the Precious Big Handprint against the great demon who would devour all humans’ vital essence—proof of my love of peace.”

Qing’s face soured at once.

“Even if you talk, must it be like that. Anyway—they’re brigands, so if we poke around we’ll find where they piled the stolen goods.”

“How dare you harbor doubt toward plateau folk! The great me has already judged; I cannot permit such violence!”

“You’re not some ethnic guardian. If you hate it so much, wait here. I’ll slip in and confirm and come back.”

“That—grrk.”

Suddenly Amukhablap made a thick noise, and blood streamed from his mouth.

“Fishcake? What is it?”

“#! ##! Khh—urk.”

In the confusion out popped plateau speech.

“Poisoned. Poison.” That’s what Qing understood.

Amukhablap jammed his bony fingers into his mouth, heaved up the barley bread he’d wolfed alone, then sat straight down.

He folded his legs and circulated energy to expel the poison.

“Damn, he really does it all. Greedy pig eats it all by himself and—”

“I—already—knew. Thus—your harmful—poison—I—handle. You—this half hour—endure. I—handle—poison.”

Just endure this half hour while he purges the poison.

Hnh. Endure, my ass. If you’re late there’s no slaughter—so I’ll kill them all.

Every bandit bastard dies.

I’ve been lying around and itching; the thought of seeing blood after so long—my heart’s pounding.

“Iri, will you stash Fishcake somewhere safe? You know what I mean?”

“Yes. Yes.”

While Seol Iri hoisted the mad monk and carried him down the slope, Qing drew the Moonlight Sword and leveled it sideways.

Gyeon Pohee slipped the Hexagonal Flanged Mace off her back, opened the mechanism beneath the grip, and locked it on—clack!

Mace–Moonlight Sword, Unit One—deployed.

In that instant, the world flared bright: countless torches stood along the ridge.

“Damnable bald monk! He hid his party! Move! We must kill the mad monk before he purges the poison!”

Some kind of pep talk, but didn’t that mean they feared Fishcake Three-Combo?

A savage smile spread over Qing’s face.

At a glance: one young beauty, so young she still had °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° girlish traces—halfway between girl and woman—plus one man with a broad straw conical hat thrown over his head.

To bandit eyes, easy prey.

Until they were properly torn apart.

The blade of the Mace–Moonlight Sword swept right to left.

The mace’s long haft carved a huge arc no normal sword could, and the bandit charging at the point caught that path.

A narrow downhill track where the camp hid—steel bit into thick thighs; the feel of slicing dense, resistant muscle.

One, two, three, four, five! Six!

Yes. That’s it.

The thrill of cutting living things—forgotten for a while—returned.

From blade to grip, grip to shaft, shaft to palm—zzt—racing along the nerves to the lower dantian where heat whoomphs to bloom.

Then that heat fires up the spine, scalds the back, and climbs the crown—an indescribable ecstasy.

Three bandits, legless, tumbled past the party and rolled down the slope.

“Steel Qi! They’re masters!”

“What!? There’s only one master here!”

Qing barked back—while her smile grew more feral.