Chapter 609: Mirror-of-the-Sky Blood (13)

Sometimes you have to fall for a trick even when you know it’s a trick.

If Qing’s shout is a lie?

At worst he only yields initiative for looking away a heartbeat.

But if the mad monk really is hiding—he pays with his life, not initiative.

Nacheok snaps his head left and right, scanning everywhere.

Of course—no such man.

Then—BWONG—!

A solemn bell-roll—Nacheok, ah!

He grits his teeth and frantically whips the staff in eight directions.

A net of staff-qi spreads, screening the old man head to toe, walling the eight sides to brace for a bell-strike clash.

Brace for it? Clash—doesn’t come?

“Gkh—!” A cry of pain rings out.

In Nacheok’s sight: his senior disciple, bent like a bow at the flank—and in that opening Peng Daesan and Gyeon Pohee drive in.

“Vile!”

“Old man! Who are you to whine about ‘vile’!”

“Wh—”

“Was it ‘honorable and fair’ when you butchered civilians who know nothing of martial arts!”

Qing says it and throws sword-qi.

The Moon Maiden Sword Art’s first-half—naïve, unreadable tracks that twist erratically.

Her face is anything but naïve.

Nacheok’s hands and feet tangle.

A step back—another step.

He keeps giving ground, flinging his staff wide in both hands, barely batting aside the strokes.

Kang! Kang! Kang! Yellowish sword-qi, horizontal, vertical, slanting—smashes into the staff and throws up clamor without end.

What is this—what kind of chaotic wreck of a martial art is this!

Every martial art has a through-line.

Martial arts are embodiments of images—of nature, of beasts, of the sages’ teachings.

Hard and soft, quick and dull, heavy and light—opposites can mix, but there’s still a spine at the center.

At Harmony, a master can read that spine by crossing weapons; you weigh your releases and sow your forms to match.

But what is this sword?

She swings a hulking greatsword side to side, jabs without warning, jag-saws through big and small angles.

Philosophy? Depth? It’s like a child aping swordplay with a stick—meaningless flailing with no depth.

And yet the qi collision is no joke—every move is a kill-move loaded with real weight; not a feint he can treat lightly.

Nacheok grinds his teeth—

“Gaal!”

Thud! The Moonlight Sword bites about an inch into the monk’s shoulder.

Bone grates—point carving into the scapula.

In that beat, the old monk, instead, steps straight in on a true advance, shoving the staff horizontal.

The middle of the cross-held staff slams Qing’s chest.

“Ugh.”

A vital spot, and she wasn’t expecting it.

Her breath jams; air leaks out.

Damn lump of meat—uselessly heavy and filthy painful!

Breath is a fighter’s root; out of breath, you can’t put true weight into any posture.

Nacheok heaves the staff forward, full power; Qing’s upper body gets shoved back—she flops on her tailbone.

Ow—my tailbone! Useless piece of junk!

Hh–up—she rams breath back into a chest seized tight.

A long shadow halves her face.

Nacheok’s figure—staff arcing high.

Qing tumbles—one roll left, slaps ground, three rolls the other way.

At Harmony, even while you’re chopping down, the line curves; roll in one direction and you might as well lie still.

Puff! The staff’s ringed fittings shave her left sole by a hair. Ta-ta-tak—frozen dirt chips rattle her coat.

Even so, Qing shrieks:

“Amukhablap! Now! Hurry!”

“Wretch—you lie again!”

Damn—no sale.

Thud! Thud! Thud! The staff pounds the ground in a drumroll.

Qing rolls left, right, left-left, right, left, right-right, not-left but right—right—then brakes hard to a stop.

The world spins; sky and earth flip and flip—her head is a hive; every near-miss of that falling staff gives her crawling chills.

Suddenly, Qing props the blade flat to lift.

Clang! The staff slams the blade-flat—and Qing lets go of the sword and clamps the tip of the staff.

Her gaze knifes past his shoulder!

“Ahab! Now!”

Ahab—the monk’s proper plateau-style address.

With her gripping the staff, eyes bright to ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) the rear—Nacheok jolts, releases the shaft, and springs away.

Qing’s voice, satisfied at the catch:

“Aww, a big one. Bites so well.”

“You—!”

He goes to curse, sees Qing hanging in the air—startles and hurls himself aside.

A staff is a long-weapon—classed as cudgel.

Great-Sage Shakes-Heaven Demon-Staff, like the name says, is cudgel-work.

Qing kicks the sky and replays the fall of a star.

Even without the heavy flanged head, it’s a savage attack you dare not meet bare-handed.

Nacheok slips it by a whisker.

Qing scotches the staff into the ground, skims the end like a pole-vaulter, and hops over.

Now both arms high.

A smile opens at her mouth.

This is reversal of fortune, old man.

Bang-bang-bang—the staff drums the earth.

The one on the ground twists and rolls without end.

The roles reverse: striker and roller.

When Qing rolled, she had a sword in hand—she could at least block once.

The barehanded monk has no such thing—only panic-dodging for his life.

And Great-Sage Shakes-Heaven Demon-Staff isn’t just the one falling strike, Meteor Drop!

It’s a cudgel art modeled on a falling star—yes, mostly straight-down smashes, a bulldog series of down-strokes.

Bang-bang—THUD—bang-bang-bang—THUD.

The other sounds are the staff he failed to dodge and had to slap aside with his own hands.

Cornered, Nacheok shouts again and again:

“Shangke! Shangke! [Help me!]”

The Vajrayana Monk who’d been thrashing the Short Blade & Twin-Swords Society grunts—Nacheok’s senior disciple, whose name in the plateau tongue means “Enlightenment”—and finally notices his master’s desperate tumble.

“[Master!]”

Qing’s party had all they could do to keep their own hides before a Harmony master—no stopping power at all.

Shangke sprints for Qing and—Ooooom—the Buddhist mantra peals.

Qing floats up; the boar-charging Shangke’s Great Handprint surges under and barrels past, running long.

Qing plants in the air again—flips—and faces Nacheok.

Nacheok’s eyes are resolute; he meets her without dodging.

“Come!”

A bold cry.

He draws both palms to his hips—shaaa—formless qi coils in twin vortices.

Ah. So you can throw the big blood-red hand as twin palms too.

However.

Do I look like someone who comes when called?

Qing drops straight down, limp as a puppet cut.

The momentum of Earth-Supporting Great Sun Tathāgata Hand gutters away.

Nacheok’s eyes fill with bafflement.

Weren’t we about to settle it master to master?

Qing never agreed.

And more than that—

Ooooom—!

The Great Handprint’s mantra again.

Nacheok startles.

Because the supreme movement of the Great Handprint—the air-shaking sound—came from behind him.

He wheels.

A familiar face—close—when did he get there!

Amukhablap, in the flesh.

Nacheok scrapes up qi, throws twin palms to meet—WHUMP!—a rough blast—and blood-red radiance jets all around.

His body skids backward.

And then—gentle hands catch his back.

“[Shangke, is that you? I am fine—]”

A curt woman’s voice answers:

“Not Shangke.”

“—Hrk!”

Nacheok tries to wrench around—

BWONG......!

Tathāgata Divine Palm, mid-house method: Wish-Fulfilling Wheel Guanyin.

Qing’s inner-force long since outruns the standard realms.

Her palm is already pressed flat to his back; temple-bells peal, solemn and deep, while every temperament of qi—some dignified, some capering, some dark and wicked—braids together and begins a merciless penetration.

His mid-Harmony Protective Steel Qi braces and resists—but—

“[Fool! A monk who claims to follow the Buddha, with a heart naught but slaughter and greed—how hideous!]”

A fine scolding.

Though in Qing’s eyes, Amukhablap—creeping low, almost belly-crawling up behind Nacheok—looked anything but fine.

Smack!

Amukhablap slaps, rough and hard.

A Blood Handprint slap, with Steel Qi—cheek bursts at once, teeth crack out.

His head whips; gums bare; broken teeth spike like a fiend’s maw.

His focus shatters; Protective Steel Qi frays; Qing’s qi seeps into the spine and melts it to limp blood-jelly.

About 8 inches of vertebrae go soft; his knees go first and he collapses like a spill.

Qing’s thick fur-boot sole stomps his forearm—crk.

Nacheok screams; Amukhablap grinds the other arm underfoot and pulps it.

Truthfully, even without Ahab’s ambush, the advantage was already theirs.

If an old bald donkey meets your eyes and invites you to decide it in one throw, hasn’t he judged his chances wanting?

In fact, without his disciple’s help he’d already have died—rolling on his back and catching a hit.

But did Ahab’s entry help?

Of course. I could win—but my friends were already flagging.

So Qing could welcome it.

“Ahab? What happened to you?”

“A scratch. Trifling.”

“What do you mean, scratch? Your arm fell off.”

His left sleeve is tied off; where an arm should hang—nothing hangs.

“A minor injury.”

“If that’s minor—”

“Enough. Words are for after.”

Ahab jabs his one remaining finger.

Qing follows his look and locks eyes with the other Vajrayana Monk—the one called Shangke.

He whirls and runs.

No chance left—dump master and brother-disciples and save your own skin to plan for later: a model strategic retreat.

Qing stamps a true advance and yells:

“That bastard’s bolting! Get him!”

——

Shangke’s getaway doesn’t last.

Qing’s lightness skill is a study so superb even god and demon concede it; she’s made a mess of cities, flying and vaulting more than once.

Qing runs him down; they scuffle and stall; her party catches up fast.

Two in Harmony, two super-transcendents—even counting Seol Iri as combat-nonfactor, it’s not a force he can handle alone.

So—the city square.

An hour or so ago, the monks were taking everyone’s prostrations and delivering a sermon.

Now they hang by ropes from trees.

Life’s unknowable—but who could have imagined a complete reversal in one double-hour?

“These are fake monks—daring to impersonate clergy. I, Amukhablap, acting for the abbot of the Blood Thunder Sound Temple, attest it. My resplendent renown—you already know that truth.”

A few cries of “Mad monk!” pop up, then die embarrassed.

Likely Central Plains folk; the Zang here haven’t learned even basic pugilist lore.

“Is... is that certain?”

“You heard already the fakes’ sermon. I was so aghast I nearly stopped breathing and went to behold the Buddha’s face. What Buddha divides Zang and Central Plains and offers salvation by race? Remember what these fakes told you.”

Faces around the square change all at once.

The nervous eyes turn vivid with hostility.

Amukhablap is famous enough—and if such a famous one guarantees they’re fakes, what utter bastards they must be.

Besides, they had gathered to hear a sermon—and what did they hear? Guard the roots of the plateau folk; those who follow the Han tongue and Central Plains customs will suffer heaven’s wrath and burn in hell.

Were it not for that sermon, the people wouldn’t have accepted this and turned so hostile so quickly.

“Cause and effect” didn’t arise for nothing.

The plateau folk revere monks—and fear them as well—as much as they honor them; fake monks rank near the top of human crimes.

The hanging monks feel wronged.

But once your windpipe is slit you can’t make sound; wronged or not, what can you do—only hiss like wind through a reed and waste your breath on a wrath that cannot be wrath.