Chapter 586: Let’s Kill the Bandits (8)

Bandit man—long jaw, the so-called horse face.

Round eyes, large nostrils, heavy brows.

Name: Wang Suhang. Age: thirty-four.

Affiliation: Sea-Ridge Sect, Azure Dragon Unit.

Rank: second-rate, late stage—

Crack! The most beautiful hand in the world smacked the bandit’s head viciously.

The bandit rubbed his skull with his one remaining arm, unable to hide his aggrieved look.

The look said: why hit me when I’m answering properly?

Qing snorted a sharp breath through her nose.

“Hey. You playing with me? Since when do second-raters get split into early, mid, and late? You lot go even in a one-on-one, and you want to posture up and down?”

“No matter what, at least I can easily beat those trash who are only second-rate—early stage—”

Crack! Oh, this one is asking for a beating.

“People at the bottom should be thinking about hauling each other up a little, not calling second-rate trash. Whatever. Sea-Ridge Sect?”

Help! Qing turned her head toward Gyeon Pohee—no, Seol Iri—no, Amukhablap—no, Peng Daesan.

“Even if I knew them. Isn’t it stranger to have every two-bit unorthodox group memorized? Unless he’s a blabbermouth.”

“It might not be unorthodox, you know. If it’s called a sect, it could be a Daoist school.”

“If he lent a hand to banditry, that makes it unorthodox. What else would it be?”

“Oh. True. San’s not bad, huh? Should I add you to the list of intellectuals or not. Though you’re not exactly... smart? Clever, maybe, but you don’t feel like a strategist, do you?”

“There’s nothing you won’t say to someone’s face.”

“If you want, I can put you on the list. You’ll just be at the very bottom. It goes: Seol (Head of Seol Trading Company), Hyang, Nana, Jegal, Lady Sima. How’s that?”

“That list is... I’ll pass.”

“Oh. So you’d rather be the snake’s head than the dragon’s tail? You want to remain the greatest ‘intellect’ among the ignorant?”

“Do you always sort people like that?”

“Yup. Intellectuals and ignoramuses. Experts and scrubs. San is currently the most intellectual among the ignorant, and among scrubs you’re in the usable tier.”

Watching Peng Daesan’s face crumple, Qing giggled.

“Lady Ximen. What about me?”

“Ah. Iri is... mm. Better not to hear.”

“What about me, then?”

“Hee-mae is family. And mine.”

“Heehee. I like that.”

“Me too, me too, I want in. I want in too.”

“Go on, shoo. Hit Flower Realm first, then we’ll think about it.”

Anyway—interrogation, continue.

Bandit man—tall, big-headed.

Flattened side of the skull, tremendous nose.

Name: Cheong Sam. Age: thirty-seven.

Affiliation: Sea-Ridge Sect, Azure Dragon Unit Chief.

Rank: first-rate, threshold.

Statement:

The Sea-Ridge Sect is a mid-sized unorthodox outfit that runs a small red-light district in Xining. We heard there was a big score, so I brought the boys and joined the bandit gang.

The loot we split among ourselves; the kidnapped people were taken away by monks from the Thunder Sound Temple in the west.

Next. Next. Next.

And then—next.

Bandit man—gaunt, cropped hair.

Overall sunken look.

Name—ptooey. Age—ptooey. Affiliation—ptooey. Rank—ptooey.

What is he, a space monster?

Why spit every time I ask something?

Faced with this spit-attack of “don’t ask me, just kill me,” which did have a kind of backbone to it, Amukhablap’s face twisted.

The man from the west had insisted a westerner should interrogate a westerner, came on strong—and got a faceful of spit for his trouble.

“[Poor child. You have already broken the precept against killing; at least now repent and seek the light of the Great Sun Tathāgata. Why would you heap up more sin? Open your mouth, willingly.]”

Haaack—ptoo!

Good attempt; that gob of phlegm turned into a Blood Handprint.

Qing was incredulous.

“No, how would that get him to talk? You’ve got to smack, scorch, shave, and break him a little so he thinks, ‘Ah, this is no time to posture about loyalty for no reason.’”

“This filthy fellow is, however, of the most unyielding bloodline of the plateau folk. Plateau folk do not yield to pain. A fearsome people; pain does not work.”

“Really? You can guarantee that?”

Qing’s eyes narrowed.

A cruel tint quietly seeped into the centers of her pupils. Amukhablap gave a small cough.

“Dear one, you must quickly return and soothe your killing intent. Those eyes are fit only for the world’s great slayers. Learn from the Master of Mercy, the Buddha.”

“Hey now, don’t change the subject because it’s not going your way. These Middle Kingdom men are nobodies who came for pay without knowing a thing. But the plateau folk—you look like you actually know something.”

“Great Me is also frustrated! Very frustrated! Utterly frustrated! Chest already burst!”

“You’re not going easy on him because he’s plateau folk, right?”

“Hmph. This bandit has already lost the qualification of the plateau folk. But plateau folk are spiritual beings; bodily pain does not guarantee testimony.”

“What do we do, then. Should we at least try something.”

Qing beamed.

At that rate, there’s really no helping it.

Because friends are °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° here, I chose the mild method of a non-threat threat—leaving them quietly to stew while we ate supper.

If they’re going to be this uncooperative, then I have no choice but to draw blood, do I?

Ah, truly—truly no choice.

“Dear one, do not speak of torture while smiling. It also harms yourself. An act not good for one who loves herself; thus self-harm.”

“Then what do we do?”

“Blades, fire, iron, fists and feet—these means all arise from hatred. To give hatred is also to pile up hatred toward oneself until the mind falls ill. But giving—giving is also giving to oneself. That merit: the sky knows, the earth knows, the Buddha knows, and above all the other knows. This is true edification. Great Me will show the method of edifying by giving.”

For once, Amukhablap sounded like an actual monk.

So he rummaged around the bandit stockade—and suddenly set a big cauldron to boil soup.

He said he would show edification by giving; it looked like he meant to buy a heart with a bowl of hot soup on a bitterly cold night.

Suddenly Qing recalled, hazy now, a great bowl of hot noodles slurped during military drill on the march in the past.

Mm. True enough—when the body is exhausted, overworked, cold, and hurting, a big hot bowl can soften the heart and cool the resentment.

But will those vicious monks suddenly open their mouths just because you give them one bowl of soup? Doesn’t that make no sense?

Or do monks have some way of connecting monk-to-monk?

While Qing watched that performance with half doubt, half curiosity, a loud gulp sounded at her side.

“Iri? Still hungry?”

“Broth isn’t rice.”

“Hm? Suddenly stabbing at the truth like a coward.”

It was one of those unavoidable truths even Qing had to concede.

If it’s bitter or sweet, it’s a drink; if it’s salty and fatty, it’s a meal. Unfair, isn’t it.

Thus, while Qing watched and Seol Iri hovered, poised to pounce, Amukhablap ladled a huge wooden bowl of soup and approached the plateau man who had refused testimony by ejecting saliva.

Then—clamp—the gaunt back of the mad monk’s hand bulged with cords as he seized the man’s skull; that meant a Flower Realm expert was applying strength.

And then he poured the steaming soup, thread by thread, into the man.

“Grahk—grrk—gak—agh! Grrrk—kuhluk—phwaa—guk—ghuk!”

Boiling soup rushing up the nose tore a scream from him; the mouth that screamed filled with soup as well.

The plateau bandit, his limbs bound and flailing, thrashed and bucked like a fish flopping out of water—padadak!—twisting and jerking with all his might.

But the Flower Realm expert had decided to hold the skull in place, so ggurk—gak—kholok—grrk—gulp—guk—phoop—he kept up those wretched sounds, drinking and spewing, drinking and spewing, with breath and screams thrown in besides.

Watching, Qing smacked her palm with her fist.

Ah. So that’s what you meant by giving.

“Khughk—khaaak—[th—] kholok—grrk—[sto—] hwek—guk! Phoop—[I’ll talk—] kuhuk—[please!]”

Qing was impressed.

Just by giving, the mouth really does burst open and the truth comes pouring out, doesn’t it?

An astonishing scene of edification by giving, without blades, fire, iron, fists, or feet.

“It tastes bad. It’s spicy, bitter, and salty.”

“Iri? You tasted it in that short time? If it’s bad, why are you shoving it at me?”

“Yes. Yes. It’s really bad. Try it.”

Qing took the bowl—slurp. Hm. If we dump in a lot of sugar, this might work?

It’s already spicy, bitter, and salty; add sweet on top and isn’t that the perfect broth?

Anyway—again.

Name: Chang Huamima. Age: thirty-one.

Affiliation: Lesser Thunder Sound Temple—

“[What!?]”

Amukhablap barked like a scream.

Peng Daesan turned his gaze to Qing.

Qing tapped her ear—keep listening.

“[How—how does a monk of the Lesser Thunder Sound Temple commit such lawless banditry!]”

“[Khhng—kholok—khaak—damn it—sometimes, for the greater cause, one must shoulder brushwood and leap into the flames. If I do not go to hell, who will?]”

“[The greater cause—what ‘greater cause’—]”

“[The Tibetan Empire.]”

At that, Amukhablap flinched—staggered like a man pricked by a blind arrow.

“[We will reclaim the great empire. It is not too late for you. Cast off your role as lackey to the Middle Kingdom oppressors and join the true destiny of the plateau folk.]”

Amukhablap gave no answer.

Qing quietly wrapped her fingers around her sword hilt and met her friends’ eyes.

This was not ordinary; be ready to strike.

The party quietly settled their stances—why is Iri filling a water flask with soup?

If we freeze the soup and forge a blade, what do we call it—Soup Sword?

As that gurgle-gurgle of liquid rising filled the silence and a hush of tension spread, Amukhablap’s enraged voice exploded:

“[Y-you—you’re possessed by the ghost of that empire! Fine! The Tibetan Empire! A great empire! Once it ruled the world! And this—this petty banditry is what you do for it!?]”

“[I know you. Amuk— Hiparang. They said among the lackeys at Blood Thunder Sound Temple who call themselves the Middle Kingdom’s henchmen, you were the foremost master—indeed. With the martial arts of the plateau, how much blood of the plateau folk have you shed? But there is still a chance. The sin you’ve laid upon the plateau—spend it to atone for the plateau.]”

“‘Lackey’—the foulest slur for a traitor, a collaborator, a turncoat; also the harshest insult the Middle Kingdom uses.”

It’s a slur aimed at the Han, but, as Qing heard it, that’s how it came across here.

“[Mingma, you foolish Mingma. Will you spill the living’s blood for an empire already dead?]”

“[Damn you, lackey. To you, our plateau’s long-cherished wish is nothing but a ruined past? Look. Look at this land. Look at the land the Middle Kingdom dogs tore away on a whim. Look at our children of the plateau. Look at them—speaking the Middle Kingdom tongue, taking Middle Kingdom customs, food, thinking like Middle Kingdomers—our people’s children, fading away day by day.]”

“[And for that, do you deny our little ones? They are still our plateau’s little ones. And at the very least, you are not qualified to say such things. The Tibetan Empire—how did that empire that ruled the world fall? Because monks of your Potala wrought such wickedness that the world drowned in lamentation.]”

“[A lackey’s mouth can’t be reasoned with.]”

“[Is this truly the will of the Dalai Lama? To spark a war with the Middle Kingdom for that paltry power? To set the plateau folk and the Middle Kingdom folk at each other’s throats to stir up hatred?]”

“[Ha-ha! ‘Set against each other’? ‘Set against each other,’ you say? Then what—live neighborly and friendly with those enemies who seized the plateau’s land? Is that what the blood of the plateau should say right now? You lackey! Filthy turncoat!]”

“[You’re filled with nothing but hatred.]”

Amukhablap pressed his palms together and chanted scripture.

Then—at some moment—crack!!

With a skull-splitting sound, the bandit monk’s body—its upper jaw gone—collapsed and shuddered in small convulsions.

Amukhablap, who had struck the killing blow, merely looked down coldly at the corpse.