Chapter 583: Let’s Kill the Bandits (5)

Mace–Moonlight Sword. A pseudo–mace crescent saber—a flanged iron club with spikes about one and a half feet long joined to a two-and-a-half-foot iron shaft, its butt connected to the hilt of the Moonlight Sword.

Why was it deliberately separated? Because it violated national law.

By law, any weapon longer than four feet is forbidden.

Of course, the government office—those officials who invoke the “non-interference with official duties” rule just to shirk work and play all day—never truly enforce that.

They’re the type who won’t lift a finger unless there’s profit, so even if someone’s caught breaking the law, no one’s punished or flogged.

Even the sabers used by hermits are nearly five feet including the handle, yet officials pretend they “look about four.”

Thanks to that, martial artists treat the national law as nothing but air.

But to commoners, the law is terrifying.

To officials, martial artists are risky—if unlucky, you get blood on your hands; if lucky, you escape unharmed.

But a commoner bleeds coins. Hit one and money pours out, so everyone jumps in to beat them.

“Hey, you too—hit him! Coins are falling out!”

So Old Ban, terrified of the law, followed it by the narrowest margin when forging weapons.

The Mace–Moonlight Sword was the result of that little loophole.

The greatsword affixed to the long iron shaft drove into a bandit’s shoulder and ripped straight down.

It only stopped when it reached the pelvis after tearing through the ribs.

The severed section collapsed, and the arm still attached to it hung limply over the frozen ground. For a brief moment, the smooth cross-section of shoulder bone and ribs gleamed before being drowned in a flood of blood.

Still, since it hadn’t been completely severed—maybe it could be stitched back on somehow? Though even if the world’s greatest physician rushed over, it’s doubtful he could fix it. Anyway—close enough.

Qing loosened her grip.

The heavier iron mace naturally sank toward the earth; her hand gliding down the Moonlight Sword’s hilt shifted into a reverse grip, and the iron mass slashed through the air.

Heaven-Trembling Great Sage Demon Staff. First Form: Falling Star.

Qing thought the name was rather funny.

Wasn’t a Falling Star originally a weapon with a chain and iron maces on both ends? Of course, this “Falling Star” used the “play” character rather than “flow”—two star-shaped heads spinning and tangling together, chasing one another as though at play.

The founder must’ve been quite the clown.

A sudden image crossed her mind—the reverence of a warrior watching a star fall.

Not a distant streak in the night sky, but a star that had fallen close by, destroying a mansion in a dazzling explosion that tore it apart in every direction.

But among those scattered fragments were pieces of his wife and children’s flesh and bone.

Yet instead of wailing in grief, the warrior sat cross-legged where he stood and forged the destruction he had witnessed into a martial art.

His wife and children were regrettable losses, sure—but like Liu Bang or Liu Bei and countless heroes after them, a great man can always discard and replace his family.

If one clings to such trifles, how could he achieve greatness?

A star has fallen and enlightenment has struck—what importance could family hold now!?

Of course, it was an idea deserving heavenly condemnation.

Naturally, the man was reviled, expelled from his sect, and forced to flee before his core could be destroyed.

Still, because of him, the world gained a new martial art—one that embodied the vision of a colossal star crashing from the heavens and making even Heaven tremble.

A pity that his chosen weapon happened to be a cudgel.

Why cudgel of all things?

If it had been a sword or a saber, he’d have gotten gold—maybe even purple—rather than red.

Or maybe it’s fortunate he wasn’t a barehanded fighter. If it had been a fist or kick technique, it’d have been blue. And after losing his wife and kids just to make one fist form, he’d have probably gone insane from grief.

Whack! The shock running along the iron shaft to her grip snapped Qing’s mind into sharp focus.

Ah—seriously—heeey, this is amazing.

The iron club slammed—squelch, squelch—through one bandit’s body and into another, yellow fat and red flesh sticking together in globs until it looked like one giant hunk of meat.

Mm. I should try that.

Qing caught a descending blade in her hand and yanked.

That thing—the bandit chief’s technique, that Falling Star—I learned this just to do that.

Her monstrous strength dragged the man forward. Off-balance and unprepared, he stumbled into her reach. Qing’s left foot slid along the ground, hooking his ankle.

But—haah—no.

Not now. Not in this body’s condition. If I push it and my still-healing bones separate again, that’s another twenty days of recovery.

Her leg flashed up; both feet straightened like bamboo before crashing down with explosive speed—BOOM!—crushing the bandit’s knees and stamping a footprint deep into the frozen earth.

There were knees—past tense.

The bandit’s shriek was pure music. A melody sweeter than any instrument, making her pulse quicken and heat flare through her whole body.

Ah, right—Falling Star.

Come to think of it, the heel-stomping kick that drives straight down was also called Falling Star.

The martial art’s creator really knew his puns.

Since she’d remembered—might as well.

Her fur coat billowed wide, and her heel shot upward—crack!—the bandit’s collarbone caved in with a single blow.

Qing planted her palm, flipped backward like a swallow in an elegant arc—and—slip.

“Kyah!?”

“Uaaagh!”

The things strewn over the ground were bandits—limbs and torsos, half-severed, lives guttering out.

So maybe it wasn’t entirely careless that she stepped on one.

THUMP—less a sound than a shape—Qing landed hard on her tailbone.

It struck the frozen earth first—KRAK!

Her tailbone could easily bear her body and the weight of the weapon, but not the pain.

“Here’s your punishment for neglecting your half-devolved organ,” it declared, and the agony wrenched a scream out of her throat as the tailbone avenged itself on its careless owner.

“Die!”

A bandit lunged at the fallen Qing.

A fine ambush, but Qing never cared about dignity. Her first “profession” in the martial world had been a beggar girl, so she could use the ugliest tricks without hesitation or shame.

She rolled backward—then spread her limbs wide, landing on all fours like a beast, head tilted upward.

Her glare glowed with killing intent, feral and bloodthirsty—she was a beast.

Her knees dipped close to the ground.

Her knees existed only to drive her forward.

Then she pounced—no, not a tiger, but a tigress—her long hand clamping down on the face beneath the bandit’s fur hood.

From her shoulder, an ice dragon burst forth, coiling down her arm and striking through her palm—CRACK!

Somewhere deep—so deep it defied imagination—beneath where sunlight dies and warmth decays in the pitch-black abyss, shimmered a hauntingly clear illusion of ice.

Each surface bore a different shape, fused into a sphere of ominous ice that suddenly—throb!—pulsed with a strange undulating life—

Hm? Is that an ice crystal? Whatever. Busy now.

Leaving the restless crystal behind, Qing’s mind surfaced.

She’d felled plenty already, yet so many bandits still stood.

Heehee. So many left!

Dragging one bandit by the face in her left hand, Qing swung the Mace–Moonlight Sword in great arcs.

Each time she lifted him high—behold, the Bandit Shield: the most efficient way to use a practitioner of banditry.

The bandits froze, retreating a step.

Bandits with loyalty? Leeches that suck the blood of the innocent, now keeping faith with each other?

What a disgusting sight.

None dared attack; they shifted uneasily, watching for an opening.

Qing, meanwhile, took the pause to breathe—planning which trajectory to cut for the prettiest split and the most musical scream.

As the standoff lingered—crack!

The sound of shattering ice. The Bandit Shield’s handle—its face—froze solid and broke, escaping her grasp.

Flesh and muscle shattered clean; a white skull rolled across the ground.

Maybe losing sight hurt more than losing face—the hands clutched the sockets where eyes had frozen into glassy orbs.

What? I counted around thirty.

Thirty counts just to freeze and shatter a face? Is this Ice Technique even practical?

With such a petty art they dared to call themselves heirs of the Ice Palace—bullying Gunyeong until they expelled her?

What, are all Ice Palace disciples idiots?

Sure, Gunyeong’s good for little besides her face, but if they’d used Seol properly—the brightest mind in Hubei—they could’ve taken half the Central Plains by now.

Qing still moved with calm leisure.

And the leisure of the strong is the despair of the weak.

Weapons trembling, the bandits stepped back again, then again—retreating until someone suddenly screamed—

“Not human! ##! ###!”

A mix of broken Central Plains speech and plateau dialect—rakshasi? Rakshasi? You calling me names now?

The Rakshasi—a monster in the plateau people’s creation myth, mother of their race—had mated with a monkey and borne six offspring, the ancestors of the plateau folk.

Back then, before she’d taken refuge in the Dharma, she was a great demon who devoured ten thousand humans—a female fiend the plateau people still fear most.

Naturally, Qing had no idea.

It would be stranger if she did.

She wasn’t one of them, and other people’s creation myths didn’t interest her.

She hadn’t cared about the Han people’s origins either—only knew of them through Daoist study.

In any case, it was true Qing’s handwork was inhuman, and fear had already taken hold.

One runner broke first; morale snapped like a twig. As if just realizing that “flight” was an option, all of them turned tail and ran.

Downhill wasn’t safe either.

Half-crippled bodies kept flying through the air, screaming as they went; terrified survivors scrambled uphill.

The brick rampart they’d built with sweat and blood (and slaves’) had never felt so solid.

“What are you doing! Stop! Stand and fight!”

Whether chief, commander, or whip-sergeant, she didn’t know—but if she didn’t, she’d just catch him and ask.

“You fools! Run and that mad monk will—augh! Get out of my way!”

The one driving them forward caught sight of Qing charging him, threw his iron staff aside, and turned tail in terror.

Only—the staff, spinning as it flew, came at her with savage force. Qing stopped, raised her hand, and caught it mid-flight.

Szzz—packed with inner energy, it kept spinning even in her grasp.

Her palm burned hot. What the hell—did he add rifling to the handle? Some kind of rotating cyclone spear—since it’s thrown, a “throw-cudgel”?

Meanwhile, the last bandit to flee—the supposed chief—darted ahead, slipping through the gates of the bandit fort and vanishing inside.

Wow, look at that bastard run.

And what’s this? “He who always stands at the front will also be the last to remain”?

So being a “true commander” just means your lightness skill’s good enough to run last but arrive first?

He dashed inside—and screeeak—the gate began closing immediately.

Whether those outside were subordinates or comrades didn’t matter—he meant to shut the door first and abandon them.

Qing stared, dumbfounded.

And what does he think he’ll gain by hiding in there?

That rampart’s barely ten feet high.

Sure, to Gunyeong it’s “a whole ten feet,” and to San or Hee-mae it’s “as tall as a house,” adjusted for their pitiful level of cultivation—

But to me, it’s just ten feet.

Before a true master, what good is such a flimsy wall, really?