Chapter 584: Let’s Kill the Bandits (6)

The bandits’ stronghold—at its iron-sheathed gate—a whole slapstick farce broke out.

The first one in—the presumed chief—tried to slam the doors shut, so the underlings right behind him grabbed the leaves and shoved back with all their might to stop it.

Other bandits used the moment to slip through the narrowing gap, and again the passage formed by the two doors began to thin.

Those already inside seemed to be lending hands to close it.

So much for loyalty—thrown to the dogs.

Thanks to the men holding the doors open, a few who’d made it into the fort were now trying to shut it—now that they were safe, shut the rest out.

More bandits clung to the closing doors and grunted, pushing hard.

Inside, others strained to force them shut.

And then—just as the last of the runners squeezed in—a few of the pushers suddenly hurled themselves inward.

The instant the balance between opening and closing forces broke, the door-grabbers smacked face-first into the leaves and tumbled back outside the fort.

They rolled head over heels, sprang up, glanced at Qing, charged back, and pounded on the doors in a panic.

Thus ended the noble saga of the comrades who had “held the doors” for their fellows.

Meanwhile, Gyeon Pohee lifted a handkerchief and gently wiped Qing’s face.

Afraid of hurting her, she moved with exquisite care—and with utterly practiced hands scrubbed the gore away in moments.

“Mmm. Sister’s face has to be clean to be pretty.”

“It’s just going to get dirty again.”

“Then I’ll wipe it again.”

Gyeon Pohee wrung the handkerchief and smiled.

Under her iron grip it surrendered, sluicing out the blood it had soaked up.

“Open this! Open up!”

“Open, you bastards! I said open!”

On the far side, the left-behind bandits hammered the door in frantic, booming thuds, their voices high with panic.

Qing watched blankly, and Peng Daesan’s ultra-low heart-melter of a voice rumbled over.

“Hm. You mean to leave them like that?”

“I’m thinking about it. I could go over and butcher the lot right now. Mm. But—who knows what’s waiting inside?”

“Cautious, are we, at a time like this?”

Peng nodded. Qing’s lips curled.

“Well, I’m not getting burned twice.”

She’d already charged straight into an enemy’s home ground and paid dearly—at the Xinjiazhao in Nosan, where the old Blood Pill freak gave his life to drop Qing into a trap.

Before that, storming in had never cost her, so she’d grown careless.

Back in the Green Forest, in Guangdong, she’d smashed an Unorthodox manor flat with a hammer and walked away—the experience had turned to poison.

So yes, the bandits looked like cowards ducking into the nearest rat-hole.

But a base like this might have its “means” and snares.

“Mm. We could set a fire and burn them out—no, brick won’t catch. A pity. Should I use the poison pellets Nana gave me? How much food do they have in there? We can’t just let them starve to death, can we?”

Not words any orthodox warrior should say.

Peng Daesan grimaced.

“They said the bandits took captives. Survivors might be inside.”

“Mm. Then we can’t. We use the last resort. I didn’t want to go this far.”

“You have a method?”

“Hee-mae, that—give me that.”

“That? What’s ‘that’?”

“Tsampa. I’m hungry.”

Peng’s face said, of course it is.

Tsampa is what the plateau folk eat—a Central Plains analogue would be a fasting cake: grain flour kneaded with honey.

Eaten raw it’s powder-dry and will thump your chest, but when you’re hungry, what can you do?

Qing wiped her hands on her trousers and took small bites, chewing and chewing for a long while.

She wanted to stuff her mouth, but even for Qing, swallowing that dry cake whole was beyond her current rank in gluttony.

More than anything, a bandit fort might still have something tasty inside.

Wouldn’t it be a waste to fill up on substitute rations? Hunger is a resource, too. If you’re going to eat anyway, make it something good.

To anyone listening, it would sound absurd.

But Qing’s mind deserves understanding.

When a person bears a grudge about food, they become like this.

“Lady Ximen.”

“Ah, you’re here? Come, come—Yi-ri, want a tsampa cake? Aren’t you hungry?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. I’m hungry.”

So the four of them each took a tsampa cake, nibbling away to take the edge off.

“So—what’s the plan?”

“Mm? We just sit here like this. Oh—are you cold, San? Want me to light a fire?”

She strolled around, gathering torches at her leisure; Gyeon Pohee and Seol Iri joined in, and soon they had a decent bonfire going.

Qing grinned and stretched white hands toward the flames.

“Ah. Warm. Not feeling the cold and liking warmth are two different things. Right?”

“Yes. That’s right.”

“San, come closer and get some heat. You’re the one who always freezes. You should’ve said so earlier. I’m dull about cold; if you don’t tell me, I don’t notice.”

“It’s not that—”

“#### ### ##! ##! ####! ####! ## #####!!”

A string of thick plateau curses chopped off Peng Daesan’s words.

To Qing’s ear, it was mostly inquiries after the health of one’s parents—especially passionate, inappropriate declarations between parent and child—topped with an admirable vow to kill everyone.

A lantern bounded up—then, in the next instant, whooshed past the party like a shooting star.

The mad monk had resurrected from poisoning: Amukhablap.

He sprang and tried to clear the wall in one leap—ah, close—fell short by about two feet, so he hurled the lantern with gusto, sank his hands into the wall’s facing, hauled himself over, and then—shouts, screams, impacts.

This was the last resort: Send the Monk.

Worried the camp might hide dangers?

Then send someone who can be put in danger to lead the way.

A crank with heavy bad karma—a temporary ally who betrays camaraderie by hogging the bread—if he takes risks, so what?

A tad petty, yes.

But when she’s with allies, the person who “can be risked” and goes first has always been Qing herself.

So she’s earned the right to put someone else ahead, once in a while.

And Amukhablap has the right to vengeance, too.

“San, stay here and soak the heat a bit more. Warm up. Honestly, what good is a man who freezes this easily? I’ll go see how the path looks.”

Peng Daesan’s brows twitched.

But her beaming face, the worry in her eyes—it was too lovely.

Chiding words stuck; only his brows twitched again.

Amukhablap fought well.

He just kept slapping his palms out; blood-red handprints flew and cuffed bandits aside.

To Qing’s eye, the palm-bursts weren’t that fast.

Back in Nosan, when he fled, his Precious Big Handprint hadn’t even touched her.

But those blinking crimson prints leapt the air like ghosts—an illusion of instant crossing.

And—hah—it even guides a little!

Clumsy men panicked, windmilling their weapons; when the prints smacked chests, bellies, shoulders, legs, arms—everything caved and they sprayed blood, tumbling away.

The better ones barely managed to parry with weapons and split the incoming palms apart.

Then it happened.

Amukhablap drummed both arms through the air; countless handprints overlapped and overlapped again—until they formed a pane like red-stained glass.

“Damn it! Blood Hand! Stop him! Don’t let him complete it! We’ll all die!”

The presumed chief bellowed and charged, flaring his steel qi.

At that same instant the remaining bandits hurled themselves forward.

“Haap!”

With Amukhablap’s shout, hundreds of blood-red palms launched at once.

Ooh. What’s that? You can do that?

While Qing marveled, the storm of Blood Hands crashed over the rushing bandits.

Pababak—like a mob beating drums with cudgels—the racket of impacts; bodies burst, torn to tatters and flung in pieces.

In the middle of it, the presumed chief whipped an eight-foot staff in dizzy arcs; steel qi traced a net of tight, crisscrossing paths.

He was using steel qi, yet he couldn’t cope with the mad monk—a greenhorn, likely just barely super-transcendent.

The blood-red prints that struck the qi-net went thung!! thadang!!—booming like shattering bronze gongs as they ricocheted off.

From that bedlam you could tell—the palms weren’t that fast, but the force packed into them was monstrous.

Mm. If I ever have to fight him, don’t bother parrying—use Flowing-Wave Steps and get behind him.

Mister Monk is still... murky.

That’s why the Demon-Art scouts had watched Qing’s Life-and-Death Boundary bout so closely. The more you observe an enemy’s art, the easier it is to counter it.

Having bounced away every print, the chief stood heaving—rough breaths visible even under his thick fur coat—leaning on his cudgel like a cane.

But Amukhablap, eyes hollow and cold, only glared; he didn’t look inclined to finish a foe whose legs were already shaking.

In heavy silence, the chief’s ragged gasps and the thin groans of bandits not yet dead filled the night.

“[That was surely study of the Vajra Great Sun Cudgel. Lawless bandit—vile beast—how dare the likes of you use the Great Teaching?]”

The chief tore off his fur cap; beneath the bristled scalp, a month’s worth of stubble stood.

Amukhablap’s eyes bulged wide.

Qing, watching, was baffled.

What? Who is that?

“[And your fortune is long indeed. When you said you were going to seek that dreadful demon art, I thought you’d die on your own. The Great Sun Tathāgata is merciless, it seems.]”

“[You—protuberant wisdom upon your chest—how dare a thieving beast let the Great Sun Tathāgata pass your lips? You’ve stained yourself with innocent blood. What of this sin?]”

Very monkly talk from Amukhablap—but, mm, considering he’d chased the Absorbing Essence Devil Art to steal it, it rang a little hollow.

The chief roared back.

“[Who are you calling protuberant wisdom! There are limits to how you make a man miserable! How could you brand someone with such a wretched dharma-name as if it were a joke!]”

“[Wretched? Like your nipples, which stand out even through thick clothes, so too may your wisdom stand out among all people under Heaven—that was a parent-like wish. Thus I bestowed the name.]”

“[Shut up! Wordplay and sophistry! You never liked me from the start. But even so—names are not for your tricks!]”

“[Fool. It is a body that will die and return to the Buddha—and also a gift left by your worldly parents. Why be ashamed of your own flesh and call it disgrace? I gave you a dharma-name so you’d hear it with your own ears until you grew used to it and accepted yourself. With such meager cultivation of mind, will you ever reach great wisdom, liberation?]”

Amukhablap intoned his sermon with grave dignity—but, mm. No matter how you slice it, it sounded like he was the one in the wrong.

Good intentions or not, a monk shouldn’t give a disciple a dharma-name like “Protuberant Wisdom on the Chest.”

“[I gave you vows to keep. But you cast off being human yourself. The one who ties the knot must untie it; I will take them back.]”

“[Huh. Do so. I’ll wait for you at the flaming gate of Hell. You’ll follow soon enough.]”

And with that—flop—the bandit called Protuberant Wisdom threw himself down flat on the ground.

Then Vairocana, Vairocana—the mad monk began a tantric chant and advanced slowly—one step, then another.

And—

“Wait! Monk! Hold on a second! Don’t kill him. Okay?”

Qing shouted, loud enough to check Amukhablap in his tracks.