Chapter 606: Mirror-of-the-Sky Blood (10)

Peng Daesan understood the role he had to play among these hand-raisers—these golems who lifted their hands for anything Qing proposed.

If not, they’d carry out things so grim or embarrassing that they shouldn’t even be rumored about, let alone seen—parading them around as if they were daily routine.

Put simply, Peng Daesan was the common sense of the Short Blade & Twin-Swords Society.

Of course, not to the “blind lackey” degree Peng imagined.

The only truly blind lackey—“Do whatever you want, big sis”—is Gyeon Pohee, and she isn’t even in the Short Blade & Twin-Swords Society.

Everyone has at least one agenda they oppose or try to stop.

Seol Iri is hypersensitive about Qing’s safety—safety first, full stop, slamming the brakes on anything risky.

Tang Nana—born of the Tang Family’s cruel bent—would go one move further here: Then use poison too? But she’d still try to keep Qing from, say, scarfing food in front of others—maintaining dignity.

Namgung Sinjae is sword-mad, yes, but in this situation he would have objected first thing.

Gongsun Yoye hasn’t traveled with us, but on matters touching honor—meanness, tricks—she’s strict.

Of course, Moyong Juhee turns feral at the scent of villains and would play hand-raiser.

“I know these wretches are refuse who deserve to die a hundred times. I don’t share your desire to make them live longer to suffer, but I can understand it.”

Peng Daesan shook his head.

“But this time you’ve gone too far. Your face—no, you don’t listen to ‘face’ anyway, so I’ll speak your way: people feel pity for the weak. If you treat them like that—no matter how worthless they are—some will start defending them: ‘Were their crimes really so heinous as to merit this?’”

“Hehe.” Qing let out the sheepish laugh of someone with nothing to say.

“I mean, I know that much, okay? It’s not something you show people. But this time we don’t have a choice—they’re from Uncle Ahab’s sect.”

Qing did grasp that this wasn’t something to do in public.

A miracle.

But Qing had already confirmed part of the Blood Thunder Sound Temple’s arts—rather than that “Arab-whatever” garble.

“Up to now we haven’t given them the distance or the chance—but their Precious Big Handprint? They can fling palm-strikes. They don’t come especially fast, but they flicker—hard to see—and the trajectories curl in sneaky ways.”

A destructive ranged tool is dangerous.

And distance attacks, by nature—how foul and dirty is that?

When an attack misses, for a fractional instant you expose a weak point—something warriors tacitly accept between themselves.

But if they stay out and keep flicking palms from afar, and a few of them time a rush—of course it turns disgusting.

Even I own a Lion’s Roar; I’ve felt its usefulness firsthand.

Therefore: we needed shields.

If they flung palms rashly, we’d teach them that it’s fatal—to the human shields—and bind that technique out of use altogether.

How efficient is it anyway?

Most arts aren’t built around shields; even if the enemy hesitates, swinging a heavy person you’re carrying isn’t a good choice.

Hence the limb-trimming.

As ornament, limbs are cumbersome and heavy.

“Unless there’s some other way?”

“No. It’s sufficient.”

Peng Daesan wasn’t objecting for the sake of face; once he heard it, he accepted it quickly.

If it were just to indulge the bottomless sadism Qing sometimes lets slip, he’d keep resisting; but for the party’s safety—what wouldn’t he do?

The Blood Thunder Sound Temple’s monks gathered in moments.

The Vajrayana enforcer leading the pursuit was bellowing himself hoarse.

The other Vajrayana monks canvassing the plateau folk around the city—something serious had exploded, clearly—hustled back to their teacher.

“[Those curs!]” “[H-how could—unforgivable...!]”

Hearing the tale, the Vajrayana monks burned with rage.

Not burning would be strange.

“[Then where are ‘Empty Skull’ and ‘Ugly Buddha’?]”

Those were ordination names in the western tongue. Unless the master who conferred them bore a grudge—or had a warped humor—who would give such names?

It made Nacheok’s lips twitch every time he spoke them, but you can’t change your Buddhist name after renouncing the world.

Empty Skull Dorak and Ugly Buddha Tunap were absent—they’d each taken two disciples to canvass, so six were missing.

Then Nacheok’s face suddenly twisted—ghastly, like a fiend-god.

Those butcher brats!

They’d clearly tailed our precious buddhas-in-training, and they were practiced at it—

As if they’d done it several times before.

“[Damn it! Find them! Scatter—no, wait! Vajrayana brothers, with me!]”

Split up against villains who wielded sword-aura—three of the four, at least—and had a minimum of three super-transcendents? Splitting would only parcel people out as neat offerings.

Tracking the enemy was easy.

These maniacs had ignored proper streets and smashed through people’s walls as they went.

The trail curved around the central square to the east side—

And there, a brick house with its wall blown out.

Inside, those brats—calmly stoking a fire under a pot, boiling porridge—

“[You vermin!]”

“Uh-uh. Wait. In the Middle Kingdom you speak the Middle Kingdom tongue. You trying to bark that barbarian babble? Heh-heh—why does your speech sound like animals howling? I heard western barbarians are the offspring of monkeys. [Eek! Lerumrri!] Kikik—Gunyeong, how’s that? I speak western pretty well, don’t I?”

The monks’ faces flushed scarlet; veins rose in their necks; their eyes sharpened to cutting edges—hatred blooming cold and pure.

“How dare—!”

“Tsk. Shut it?”

One word from Qing, and their mouths clamped shut.

They were sticking just their heads out from under the quilt—because if they saw the lack of limbs, they might give up.

Qing’s foot rested on the nose of a human shield, holding the head in place.

“Want to see a watermelon crack? Ah—barbarians don’t know watermelons? Want to see a skull burst?”

“You—!”

“Tss. I know you’re desperate seeing your friends, but we’re eating too. Hey. Baldie. Freeze. Where are you scuttling like a rat? Don’t twitch, don’t talk. Sit and wait quietly—like a dog waiting for its master.”

A formless, corrosive venom the Tang Family’s Grand Head of House himself had praised: artful vitriol that scraped the inside of the ear.

“What do you want—”

“I said shut your mouth. Are you deaf?”

Qing dramatically upended a ladle of boiling porridge onto the human shield’s face.

Even with fever boiling him hazy, the “quilt” thrashed violently.

“Ah! Look—I spilled from surprise. What a waste.”

Her face said anything but “waste”—she bit back giggles, then let a little snicker leak.

We’d already eaten a heavy breakfast; no need to pretend a late meal.

It was performance art—just to piss them off.

Truth be told, I was still full.

I emptied one bowl slowly as a snack—then snorted at the killing intent washing over me.

Disqualified as human—beasts would be insulted by the comparison—yet they flare killing aura because their sect-mates are precious?

Maybe they were remembering the “beautiful” times when they slaughtered innocent commoners in lockstep—people who didn’t even know martial arts.

“Why did you do it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Chaka Village—and the little hamlets to here. Does the western Buddha teach you to kill guiltless weaklings? Right, that’s why the Tibetan Empire fell.”

“Watch your—”

“Uh-uh. We have hostages here. Just answer. Why did you kill all those innocent plateau folk?”

“That—”

Nacheok flinched and glanced around.

Even in a back alley, this ruckus drew a crowd.

In this primitive, entertainment-starved ancient Middle Kingdom, a curious creed is common: even if a stray spark might kill you, you must watch when warriors fight.

“Ahem. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Really? Will you swear on the Buddha?”

“Hmph. Why would I swear over such an absurd slander?”

“If you’re clean, swear.”

My eyes flicked right, then left.

We had eyes and ears watching.

“Hmph. Fine. I swear to the Buddha: I have never once killed an innocent!”

“Wow, what a funny baldie. Everyone! These bald frauds butchered all of Chaka Village and ate the corpses! You know why? Because any plateau folk who spoke the Central tongue were all ‘Han-collaborators’!”

“Nonsense!”

“Then swear. Swear on the Buddha that you didn’t touch the people of Chaka Village.”

Nacheok’s face twitched and crawled.

Then he forced a smile.

“Very well. I swear on the Buddha. Chaka Village? I didn’t lay a finger there!”

“A ‘monk’ hawking the Buddha—so you never cared for Dharma. How about this then? Swear again—on the honor of the plateau people.”

“I already swore. Must I—”

“Oops—my hand again.”

I ladled another scoop straight onto the {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} human shield.

“Are you not following? Even if I tell you to bark, you should pretend to bark. So—your oath? On the honor of the plateau people.”

“That...”

Nacheok hesitated; the other monks’ eyes wobbled with unease.

As for the onlookers—they held their breath and waited.

“I—I swear. On the honor of the plateau people: I don’t even know Chaka Village, and touching them is a blatant slander.”

I let out a long sigh.

If a word could get you out of a bind...

So they didn’t kill out of some iron creed.

He sold the Buddha—so he isn’t a disciple.

He sold the plateau—so he isn’t of the plateau.

What’s left is a single, ugly old man.

“Good. Since you’ve sworn... I’ll release three. Three precious ones. Go on. Pick. I’m curious—which disciples are expendable.”

A venom like black miasma.

Whoever he chose, the rest became expendable.

But Nacheok had already sold the Buddha and the plateau.

Now, with no honor and no cause—only a sordid aim remained.

Afraid I might change my mind, he named them quickly—by realm order.

“Dorak, Tunap, and—”

“How would I know names? From the right—say which number.”

“Ahem. Second, third, and seventh.”

The faces of the human shields who weren’t called were a sight worth seeing:

Despair, fury, sorrow, self-loathing...

Why does the Middle Kingdom have no camera? I’d keep those forever.

My lips split in a wicked crescent.

So—at least three hostages have value, and the rest matter less.

“Then I’ll return them. Receive them, please?”

I flipped the quilt back.

Gasps—sharp intakes all around.

Bald heads, limbless torsos, laid out like fish at a stall—horrific.

While everyone froze—

My blade danced.

A practiced edge opening bellies.

The “useless” disciples Nacheok hadn’t chosen spilled intestines—in soft arcs—flying toward the monks.

One parabola, two, three.

Panic-stricken, the monks flung themselves to catch the incoming human shields.

They laid them down immediately, shoved the spilling bowels back in, and began tearing off their outer robes in haste.

Split bellies must be treated first, after all.

This was why we’d picked up three more in the back lanes though one shield per person was plenty.

The dead only lift enemy morale.

The wounded are almost allies—dead weight that forces the enemy to burn human resources.

I hefted a human shield.

As fun as it is to rile them with useless wordplay—

It was time to use the blade, not the tongue.