Chapter 596: Journey to Kunlun (9)

Cheon Bija answers with a gentle smile.

“Anyway, it’s so bitter and its energy so rough that anyone short of the Flower Realm can’t safely take it. There wasn’t anyone proper to give it to—then its owner happened to appear. The bond simply reached you.”

“It was bitter. Fff. Honestly, still is a little.”

At that, Cheon Bija, clearly prepared, offers a big candy with a pleased little grin.

I brighten, snatch it, and shove it into my mouth.

A burst of tart hawthorn aroma, the sweetness flooding in—oh, now I can live again.

Bitter first, sweet after—twice as sweet.

In an instant my eyes arc into rainbows; twin rainbows bloom over my pretty face.

Cheon Bija watches my cheek bulge with the candy and chuckles like a grandfather doting on his granddaughter.

“When I was young, I gulped it down and thought, So this is the punishment of hell; even execution poison couldn’t be this bitter; has my master come to take me back?—I remember the bitterness stinging until it hurt.”

He says the energy is too rough—but that’s what the “guiding the qi” method is for, the master’s art of leading a disciple’s energy.

So the line about “no proper person to give it to” is, frankly, a bright red lie.

Of course, a Kunlun disciple might balk: There are other medicines—why that dreadful one?

And the very next line would be, Not that I’m refusing—please give it here, and down the hatch before the elder can change his mind.

Truth is, when it comes to elixirs, there are plenty who’d rather die from eating than die without eating.

Announce “Queen Mother’s Heaven-Crossing Pill for sale!” and the whole martial world would swarm even to this mountain backwater with packs of gold.

It isn’t pure goodwill; there’s a purpose mixed in.

If the Tibet lot are suspicious, the Martial Alliance’s top masters will come—and then won’t Senior Ximen Surin come as well?

They say the terror of her past is nothing next to how fiercely she cherishes her disciple now. If she hears I went to see the Sword-Cut Wall, collapsed, and turned black-and-blue and puffed up all over—

who’s going to handle that temper?

But if they can add, We fed her a Queen Mother’s Heaven-Crossing Pill, perhaps she nods—all right, with that much, torn muscles make sense.

Greasing the relationship, in short.

This is how the righteous sects’ private networks work—the very web the Unorthodox and drifters gnash their teeth over: Aren’t we family?—and the favors flow.

And besides that, he’s hoping, ever so slightly.

“So then, little sister—you wielded the form yourself, did you not? As I see it, it’s upright-upon-upright, yet it contains a trace of the hegemonic way. What did Senior Heavenly Martial Emperor see in Kunlun’s arts that he left that behind? I lack the realm to fathom his meaning.”

“Ah. That. Well, um, hmm.”

I choose my words a moment.

I’ve already used the form and read its image; it isn’t hard.

“Kunlun, originally, is the fairyland where immortals dwell. The mountain called Kunlun on earth is just a name people once gave, in awe of harsh mountains. So if Kunlun’s Daoists raise a temple in their hearts and decide that is Mount Kunlun—wherever they are—they can stand there and hold their center.”

Be the Master Wherever You Stand.

Wherever you touch down, be the master—means: regardless of place, hold your center; square your shoulders and exist with your own mind as your homeland.

Then Where You Stand, There Is Truth.

Wherever you stand, unshaken, you will know you stand at the world’s center—and that becomes truth.

Call it truth because you do not measure your intent against the world and doubt it; it is your true thing.

But... is that okay?

Summed up, it’s a little like—

It’s my life; I’ll do it with my dick, my way!

I get I am the center of the world—but if I just live however I want without seeking the world’s understanding?

Best case, I become a lone tyrant; worst case, it’s the birth of an antisocial criminal.

Grandpa Heavenly Martial Emperor, is this right?

Aren’t you living a little too alone in the world?

We live together—how am I supposed to just swing my dick however I please? That won’t do.

Mm. This grandpa and I might not mesh.

If he were here, he’d clutch his chest and smack me: You damnably frustrating wench—pretty head, purely decorative, no use whatsoever—

but the Heavenly Martial Emperor is no longer among us.

“Heh... So Senior Heavenly Martial Emperor found Kunlun’s methods not to his taste. To the point of sternly scolding, How dare you try to fly when you can’t even stand properly.”

“Ah.”

I’d tried to wrap it nicely, and Cheon Bija pokes the core in one stroke.

He didn’t draw lots to become Sect Leader; even if his realm is “only” the Flower Realm, he’s a Daoist who’s studied all his life.

He reads my transparent face and smiles to say it’s fine.

“It’s all right. Kunlun has long failed to enter the far-off realm. After our relocation, the ground here is not harsh like the old Mount Kunlun—perhaps that made grand achievement hard.”

A far-off realm.

Far-off—xuan, the dark in “Mysterious”—the character used for the Translucent Realm’s enlightenment.

“Perhaps, since the move, not being on Mount Kunlun has unconsciously become a rock in my heart—a demon of mind that blocked me. Kunlun never truly existed; wherever Kunlun’s disciples stand is Mount Kunlun. I feel I’ve caught the hem of an insight at last. I must call my brothers and hold a discussion.”

His eyes flash. Even old, does a warrior’s passion for the realm ever truly wane?

It only lies banked and hidden because the path is distant and hard; a warrior’s desire always flames upward.

****

When the Kunlun Daoists first carried me in on a litter woven from their robe hems, I was one massive, blood-red bruise.

By the next morning I’d puffed up into full-body purple—because bruise colors change, moment by moment.

On the first day, whatever I tried, the torn muscles protested with pain—freeze and stay still—so I lay obediently.

Not that I was uncomfortable.

I had at my side the world’s greatest caregiver and carrier, Master of the Stand, Gyeon Pohee.

Eating, drinking—more convenient than my own hands. She knows me so well she pops my favorite side dishes and snacks into my mouth without a word.

By comparison, Gunyeong always feeds me what she likes.

It’s sweet that she wants to give me what she finds tasty...

but porridge-soup, porridge-soup, soup-soup, porridge-porridge-soup is criminal. Meat. Give me meat.

Also, as the most comfortable mount alive—providing ride comfort that never, ever sways—Gyeon Pohee gives, in another sense, soothing sways that heal the mind.

They say petting animals is the best therapy?

No, there’s something better. Tsk, tsk.

You just don’t know it.

And above all, as always in the Demon Church, in bathing me she’s an unmatched grandmaster—no rival across the world.

She rubs my torso gently—but not too gently—with just the right pressure, soothing even torn muscle like a massage; a balance tuned to my condition no one else can imitate.

I melt without knowing it—limp, boneless.

As she wipes me with a soft dry cloth, Gyeon Pohee suddenly giggles.

“Hee-hee.”

“What? What’s funny?”

“Sorry. It’s just—only your chest is snowy white.”

Well, the chest has no muscles.

I am, by nature, a person who lives the truth that the lamp’s base lies dark.

So even when I look down, I can’t really see it.

Mm. Thinking about it... it would look funny.

If my state has become her laugh trigger, she keeps giggling, innocent and bright.

But as days pass, her laughter lowers in volume.

My torso shifts from purple to navy, from navy through blue-green to green, then toward yellowish.

Moving is a pain, so after wiping me in bed, we change venues to the public bath of the guest hall. By the tenth day, except for the white face and white chest, I’m sallow like a southern barbarian slathered in powder.

Tenth day. Breakfast.

The Kunlun Daoists, now familiar with my appetite, lay out a “breakfast” so generous it’s practically a banquet.

Calling it breakfast is fraud.

I do nothing but chomp “ahm-nom-nom” while Seol Iri on the left and Pohee on the right pop things in without rest—

when I suddenly say:

“Shall we go see Qinghai Lake? I’m pretty much healed. Qinghai Lake is just a lake either way—but we have to see the Mirror-of-the-Sky, the sky-mirror vista. I’ve wanted to see that since forever.”

“Since forever” includes before I stepped into the martial world.

If you’ve come to Qinghai, you can’t say you came if you don’t see the Mirror of the Sky—the Sky-Mirror vista.

Bungsain told us when he came to check on me: local sights to see.

When he explained what it was—this is something you must see.

It’s a view I’ve wanted even before—yes, before my martial debut.

For reference, when Bungsain saw me lying there—my nape, the backs of my hands, wrists, all exposed and bruised dark blue—he wept floods.

It’s just bruises all over.

But his grief streamed down in silent sheets, the kind you’d think were for someone dying.

They don’t call him the Jade-Teardrop Sword, the swordsman of tears, for nothing.

“Looking like that, you’re healed? You can’t even lift your own chopsticks.”

Peng Daesan looks at me like I’ve lost it.

All I do is lie down and sleep—or lie down and flap my mouth—and now I’m going where, exactly?

“Huh? It’s not that I can’t lift them. I’m just not lifting them.”

When the bruise has gone yellow, you’re already healed; unless you press hard on the site, there’s no pain.

So why accept supreme caregiving—meals, moving, bathing—without so much as a finger twitch?

Because it’s comfy.

“Does a normal person throw that kind of tantrum for comfort?”

“Huh? What tantrum? I’m bestowing the honor of serving the great Heavenly Flower Sword upon my slightly lacking right-hand maid and the very lacking Iri. Right?”

“No.” “Mm-hm.”

Left and right split perfectly.

What—rebellion from my left arm, Left Iri?

“So, Iri, are you saying you don’t want to serve the great Transcendent Flower Realm—early Translucent—Heavenly Flower Sword?”

“No, I do.”

“No, denied. Your ride quality is bad. You lack the heart to think of your passenger.”

“No, that’s not—no.”

“Denied. Toss the clunker carriage; I’m riding the golden one. I’m only riding Hee-mae.”

“Heee...”

I suppress the rebellion with ease.

Look at that—playing cute again.

Indulge the cuteness and it becomes a reflex.

But how dare you deny the glory of serving me—so great and so wide-great—the Heavenly Flower Sword; so great that even wounds heal three times faster; attach lord three times and call me Heavenly Flower Sword lord-lord-lord.

There are limits to kicking your own luck away.

Suddenly, I understand Amukhablap’s mind.

Receiving alms is merit; likewise, granting opportunities is merit.

Do I say yes to rides because it pleases me and makes life easy, ignoring my sturdy legs?

Of course I ride because it’s comfortable. How could lying down in motion not be comfortable.

“Most people don’t say that to someone in their face while climbing aboard.”

“Most people aren’t Hee-mae. Right? What’s wrong with family giving each other a ride? Right?”

“Mm. Mm. Right.”

Peng Daesan exhales a long sigh.

Not just at my brazen manners—but at the two beside me, coddling me, letting me run wild without brakes.

Anyway.

Destination: the Mirror-of-the-Sky. Decided.