Chapter 595: Journey to Kunlun (8)

Mucheong—or was it the Heavenly Martial Emperor—once said that if the writer is purple, then even third-rate techniques read like divine arts.

In that sense, everything Qing has is temporarily upscaled into divine art.

Hm. I do like purple, but I wasn’t trying to become purple.

Unintentionally, I became a purple person.

My skin is swollen everywhere into a full-body plum.

Even below the forearms I’d toughened to near-Vajra indestructibility with my demon arts, the muscles have burst, ballooned, and bruised—purple on purple.

Because the Dokgo Nine Sword Forms—Three Forms, Be the Master Wherever You Stand wrung every last fiber in my body past its limit, grinding them to the dregs.

No matter how well-defended, there’s no way to “guard” against muscle fibers snapping from the inside—pop, pop, pop.

At least I didn’t use my face muscles to swing the blade, so the face is spared.

And my fingers are still pale.

Amazingly enough, there are no muscles in fingers.

“You said you were going to see the Sword-Cut Wall. Did you fight the Sword-Cut Wall instead?”

Peng Daesan looms over me—Qing laid out with Seol Iri at one side and Gyeon Pohee at the other—and drops a bassline of sub-low sympathy.

“Close enough. Didn’t you go look? The little dragon stuck to the big dragon is mine. If I weren’t running short on inner-energy, that cliff would’ve collapsed clean through—one grand landslide, the lot of them.”

Somewhere between the slot-canyon paths leading toward the Sword-Cut Wall, the interview with the foul-mouthed old man must have started—I don’t even know when.

Carried along while every muscle in me tore and all the cramping wounds trembled, I saw two dragons.

I carved a magnificent dragon from earth to sky—so did that saber mark of mine—but right beside it is an even huger dragon, and next to that, my shape just doesn’t land.

The Sword-Cut Wall engraved by the Heavenly Martial Emperor—the real one.

Only the selected lot who drew lots saw my demonstration, but anyone can go compare the new saber scar with the old one by taking the time to visit.

Peng Daesan and Seol Iri have already gone. Gyeon Pohee only cares about tending me; trivial knife-scratches don’t interest her.

The Kunlun Sect warriors are queuing in lines, waiting their turn to gawk.

“Hmph. You barely started walking again and you’re flat on your back.”

“Hey, it’s not even a serious injury. Ten days and I’ll be fine.”

It’s not that the muscles were severed end-to-end—more like half the strands in each bundle got wrecked.

Since that half-shredded bundle is every bundle in the body, strictly speaking it is serious.

But by my standards?

A few torn muscles and ligaments—big deal.

The bones are intact. If nothing’s torn clean through, a good lie-down and I’ll mend.

“I heard it could take a month—maybe a half-month more if it drags.”

“Please. I know my body. What do physicians know? For physicians, I mean.”

“...?”

From an ordinary person, that’s the kind of talk you hear right before they kill themselves.

If you’re lucky, they only kill themselves; otherwise they drag others down too.

But it’s different when I say it.

Because I’m a proper physician myself.

Add the certainty from a mountain of injuries: my recovery runs about three times faster than most.

A month, sometimes a half-month more—that’s the detailed prognosis. Back home they’d call this a five-to-eight-week injury.

Cut that to a third?

Ten days to, at worst, half a month—and unlike bone, muscle knits progressively, so that’s about what full recovery takes.

Roughly seventy percent healed—seven to ten days—and I’ll be moving around quickly again.

I’ll have to tolerate that full-body, lactic-acid hell, but physically? Manageable.

So I’m in no rush.

Plan: rest deep at the Kunlun Sect, eat their good food, use their good beds.

Honestly, with the greatest carrier alive, Hee-mae, I could just climb into her arms and head home...

But one should consider Kunlun’s position.

How could they wave cheerfully at a guest who’s a swollen, unmistakably purple mass from full-body muscle rupture and say, “Safe travels”?

Divine Lady’s Gate is my home; I can throw my weight around and wring permission if I must.

But this is someone else’s house. I’m not going to shave ten days off by humiliating Kunlun’s face and bolting.

Besides, I still have things to tell the Sect Leader—

Ahem, ahem. Little sister, are you in?

No sooner thought than Sect Leader Cheon Bija’s voice comes from beyond the door, asking after me.

Ordinarily, if a sect leader pays a sick call, disciples arrive first to announce the visit and its time.

Even upon arrival, a disciple should step in first—“The Sect Leader will enter now”—that’s the normal order.

Not because sect leaders are merely authoritarian, but because representatives of a whole order must keep proper ceremony.

And he just shows up and inquires after me?

Either an unofficial visit, or he feels as familiar as one of his own.

Even a sect leader, dropping by to see his own disciples, will sometimes just drift in, look, toss a blessing or two, and eat with them.

Seol Iri and Gyeon Pohee, regret in their eyes, rise from my bedside and move to the chairs.

I grunt—ugh—and lift my torso, and it’s like white-hot needles plunging.

A jab to the shoulder, a jab to the flank, and to the pecs and abs it’s jab-jab-jab-jab—ugh, Heavenly Flower Sword save me.

“No, no, don’t get up. Lie as you are.”

“Come on, how could I. I’m not so hurt I should show Master Sect Leader a prone face.”

“How you make even your words so pretty.”

Honey drips from Cheon Bija’s eyes.

“You came all the way here.”

“Would I summon my ailing child instead? Yes, you too. Loyalty among friends like this—truly a fine sight. Oh dear, the nape is so blue, and the hands as well. Are you a bit all right? Your expression is bright; that eases me somewhat.”

“It only looks dramatic. It’s not that serious. You really don’t have to worry.”

“How would I not worry. Here. I brought a pill that works well for my own body—take it, circulate, and bolster yourself.”

Cheon Bija says this and opens a small wooden case.

The moment it opens, a fragrant medicinal scent fills the room; on red silk sits a pellet about the size of a thumb. One whiff says it’s no ordinary thing.

“Oh—this isn’t something rare?”

“Rare? Kunlun’s alchemy is easily the finest in the Central Plains; there are plenty rarer than this. And truly rare elixirs—I can’t throw those around even as Sect Leader. So eat up. You must steady yourself first.”

He didn’t say it wasn’t precious.

For a mere bout of “aches,” downing a rare elixir would be a waste, and even if I ate it my inner-energy wouldn’t skyrocket—so I’m about to refuse—

when a thought slices through.

Right now, my inner-energy is fat and happy, and I’m beyond the realm—Transcendent Flower Realm, early Translucent—but once I reach the Translucent Realm proper, I can’t use “transcendent” anymore.

Is that all right?

If you strip “transcendence” °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° from me, what’s left?

A sham artist who imprinted the mind the wrong way and stole martial skill raw?

Convenient as it is, if I use a sly method alone and end up merely at the same realm with the same power as everyone else?

Impossible.

If the art I learned came by any means not proudly aboveboard, then the Heavenly Flower Sword must be a transcendence far beyond the realm.

Thus the Heavenly Flower Sword wants transcendence.

“Mm. Then I’ll gratefully take it.”

This is not the time to lounge and think, What difference is a bit more inner-energy here?

I pop—womp—the big pellet into my mouth.

A marble as wide as my thumb lands on my tongue and, all on its own, melts and relaxes, streaming down.

Even that alone says it’s precious.

Then, an explosive bouquet like stuffing a whole cluster of pine mushrooms into the skull—filling every hollow of my head.

And as the pellet liquefies and fills my mouth—oh, gods—it’s bitter, ffft—what even is this—gaaah—fff—Heavenly Flower Sword save me.

Back when I was a beggar, I chewed bitterwood often.

Bitterwood is so vile that people just cackle and watch when you gnaw it; unlike other bark, they don’t even bother to grab clubs.

Even for me, this bitterness is hard to endure.

Maybe it’s not un-precious at all—maybe it’s so bitter no one eats it, so they shoved off the dead stock on me at a discount—

My face twists into every ugly expression, and I try to smile for the giver’s sake—but the veins bulge and make the smile more grotesque.

Cheon Bija bursts into a belly laugh.

“The Queen Mother’s Heaven-Crossing Pill is a bit bitter, no? They say good medicine is bitter. By that measure, this might be the best medicine in the world.”

I finally gulp the melted bitterness down my throat, and my mouth still stings, aches, and goes numb from more than mere bitterness.

So I miss the shock on my two friends’ faces—Peng Daesan and Seol Iri, both wide-eyed.

The most famous elixir under Heaven? No contest: Shaolin’s Great Rejuvenation Pill.

But ask who’s most famous for alchemy under Heaven, and of course it’s the Kunlun Sect.

The mistress of Kunlun herself, the Queen Mother of the West, is the foremost alchemist among immortals, famed for crafting the Elixir of Immortality.

Kunlun, inheriting that lineage, rightfully calls its alchemy the finest under Heaven; they treasure it so much that Spirit Wheel Hall sits deep in the safest heart of their grounds.

They even have, here on Mount Kunlun, a wild stand of wondrous spirit herbs called the Half-Peach Garden; even after relocating, elders go every decade or so to harvest, so Kunlun’s flow of elixirs never dries.

Born in a remote wasteland thin on people, Kunlun can’t recruit disciples easily—so how have they endured so long?

They bridged the disciples’ lack of raw talent and late entries with medicine—yes, propped it up with elixirs—dragging cultivation upward by the power of drugs to maintain the line.

Of course, Gyeon Pohee knows nothing of elixirs; she merely thinks, nice medicine.

I, meanwhile, am too overwhelmed by the extremity of the bitterness.

It’s so bitter that even soju will taste sweet for a while after this. Truly, bitter as hell...

“Gkk—this is really bitter...”

But only for a moment. From within, power erupts—lava-hot surging upward, glacier-cold boring downward.

I shut my eyes at once and guide the energies.

Turn the hot yang downward—press it deep. Draw the yin upward—lift it high.

Left alone, yang rises and yin sinks—so after one circuit I force them to switch again.

Each time they turn, I route the medicinal power through the center of that flow—the dantian.

Every kind of true-energy nestled in my dantian starts cavorting.

They bury their heads in the grand current of medicine passing the dantian, bite down, and gobble, gobble with gluttonous abandon.

Wow, delicious, too delicious—their nonstop exclamations feel almost audible.

My cheeks puff like a chipmunk stuffed to bursting, and the happy chewing splits my mouth in a silly grin.

My eyes sparkle bright, like a sea of stars in the night.

My ears perk, perk—gourmand bliss twitching even the ears.

A feeding frenzy—one roaring festival, a jackpot feast.

And when I open my eyes—

Oh? What—

I blink at the heft: my total inner-energy swelled quite nicely.

Sure, I absorb nearly a full ten-tenths of any elixir—almost total uptake—so medicine always hits me hard.

But what’s this?

I’ve had the Great Rejuvenation Pill, and this feels like it packed half again as much power.

The Great Rejuvenation Pill is supremely safe—you can feed it to commoners who’ve never trained—and it harmonizes qi and blood: the ultimate tonic.

It’s counted the top elixir under Heaven because you can shovel it into someone whose body is in rags and on death’s door and it’s still safe; but by sheer potency, there are plenty stronger.

Even so, I can tell the pill I just ate is no ordinary treasure.

“Not rare,” you said. Sure. I’m grateful, though.

I let a sheepish smile bloom—ten percent apology, ten percent awkwardness, seventy percent thanks.

What else can I do after already eating it? All that’s left is to be grateful.