Chapter 613: I Am Wronged (3)

New Year’s morning, the very first meal was honeyed rice-cake soup.

It was the same last year, but—honeyed rice-cake soup?

You do not put sweet rice cakes into a beef broth.

As a human being, that is an unpardonable crime against food!

It really shouldn’t be... mm, it absolutely shouldn’t be.

And yet the more you eat it, the more peculiar the flavor grows on you.

There’s a reason it became the signature dish of Spring Festival.

No. Even so. This is truly wrong.

As a person of conscience, how could anyone accept such a perverse dish?

By way of protest Qing emptied exactly two bowls and practically “didn’t eat”; that should be enough to sound the alarm across Central Plains cuisine.

Only after such a very light breakfast did Qing head to the Repentance Hall everyone said was stuck in some far corner.

But—hm? Not even a cave?

A man locked in a cell may regret, but he does not repent.

So a Repentance Hall without repentance,

and not even a cave on top of it.

What is this, some holy long-nosed empire?

At a glance, the only “window” is a booger-sized slit way up by the ceiling.

That layout means either latrine or prison.

A Daoist in Kunlun robes stood guarding the entrance; since it’s a confinement facility, of course there’s a jailer.

And yet the jailer was posted at the door with a book in hand, lost in reading.

Even when Qing approached, he gave all his devotion to the book, so Qing sidled closer and tried speaking up.

“Excuse me? Master Danlun?”

“Wait a bit. Let me finish this part.”

It wasn’t that he’d failed to notice Qing; it was more, you come if you like, I’m going to keep reading.

About half a double-hour like that.

“Your fortunes are auspicious. Repentance Hall at the crack of the new year—what a grand way to ward off misfortune on Spring Festival day one.”

“Is it okay to do your jailer job that half-heartedly? Someone could escape and you wouldn’t know.”

“No need to worry. Their cores are already shattered and their meridians severed; they’re weaker than commoners and can’t even run. If one escaped, it would be so impressive we ought to praise him and let him go.”

“Eh.”

“Repentance Hall holds villains whose guilt is already manifest, the kind better off isolated from the world for everyone’s good.”

Master Danlun pointed toward a brick building standing over there.

“That’s the Investigation Wing. Prisoners whose guilt hasn’t been clearly established stay there.”

Nine out of ten who get dragged in insist they’re innocent.

You can’t shatter every last core and cut every meridian the moment they arrive, so they investigate for up to five years to verify innocence.

If five years pass with no conclusion, they have no choice but to release them.

If the crime isn’t that grave, they’ll crack the core properly so there are no side effects, then let them go.

And if an atrocious crime is proven?

They “quiet” the body by appropriate procedure and consign the prisoner to permanent isolation in the Repentance Hall.

“Better to imprison ten than create even one wrongful victim.”

“Mm. It sounds cumbersome, but I get it.”

Qing accepted it easily.

After all, she has that thing like omniscience—her wicked deeds show, and once in a while even past sins flicker up.

Even if a villain slips through, the intent not to manufacture the innocent as guilty—perhaps that’s only natural for Daoists.

“So there’s nothing particular to worry about just because you’re entering the Repentance Hall. They’re weaker than commoners. I tried to arrange the cot properly; if you don’t like it, you can come out around the Hour of the Dog and return to the guest hall.”

“I can just wander in and out? A full ‘field-trip to working life’—Repentance Hall experience package.”

“‘Experience’? K-rk, hrnk, k-rk—by word alone you’ve a knack for making a man laugh.”

The Daoist’s peculiar laugh—like yanking up a heavy snort—kept leaking through his nose.

“Meals will be brought at the proper time, no need to worry. Master Jangmun specifically ordered we serve a proper feast. We won’t lock the door; if you feel stifled, come out and get some air. K-rk—truly an ‘experience.’”

And with that, Master Danlun opened the iron door of the Repentance Hall and led the way in.

On the way in she saw it was only a fake iron door with plates riveted on—clearly dressed for intimidation given the nature of the place.

Past the double door, a wide-open corridor.

“Hey, fresh meat!?”

“Heh heh, the long-nosed bastards pulled another one.”

“Welcome to hell!”

The moment they entered, a blaze of “enthusiasm.”

Master Danlun offered one line:

“Shut it. Sounds like you want to starve. It’s Spring Festival—there’ll be a special meal.”

Silence fell like a dead mouse.

Threatening to cancel food worked like a miracle drug.

“Here. In you go. Then. I’m off.”

He dipped his head and slid right back out—to outside the Repentance Hall entirely.

Thus began the full-on Repentance Hall experience.

Qing looked over the cell.

The brick walls formed a squared-U; from the halfway point on both sides iron bars ringed it, and even the door bore a carved squared-cup pattern.

A long curtain hung across the middle of the room to screen things from view.

Ah. Don’t tell me—is that a latrine?

Qing checked; it wasn’t only a latrine.

It was a bedroom and latrine combined.

Only, there was one luxurious bed wholly unfitting for a cell.

In the corner between bed and wall sat a metal-plated lid; easy to guess its purpose without opening it.

Unlike the cells she’d peered into on the way, this room alone was remarkably clean.

The bed too—obviously a brand-new high-end piece.

Which meant someone had carried it in.

Whoever it was, they’d done labor at dawn on the first day of the year; she felt a twinge of guilt.

Qing flopped onto the bed first.

Soft and smooth; a bit small, but an excellent bed.

She drew from her breast the manual with eight characters engraved on the cover.

When she checked, the All-Forms-as-One Inner Art—it had a purple border, an inner-energy method.

Let’s see: the breathing goes up the spine to Heavenly Center, then the middle core, and...

“Hey, rookie.”

If the manual stays in her hands, there’s no need to knead her brain.

Just circulate as instructed and chant the verses; she’d hit the first seal in no time, then keep guiding qi and training all through her stay in the Repentance Hall.

“Oh? Ignoring me now?”

Mm... the middle chest point—where was that again...?

Gradual Light, North March, Sleeping Dragon... ugh, mixing them up. Where was Sleeping Dragon? Inner window of the pelvis?

“Hey! Rookie!”

Someone barked out a shout.

“What.”

“What, a woman? You a woman?”

At that, Qing—ah.

If she mishandled this, the cell block would explode in sexual harassment.

If it’s a friend talking—say, that Seol bastard, or Seol Ga-ryeon, or Mr. Seol-Somebody, or a certain So-and-So jerk—banter among familiar faces is one thing.

If you’re close, a little dirty joke can happen.

But from a stranger? No.

And obviously if some male throws a come-on at a man, it’s disgusting either way.

Not that she planned to let mouths run unchecked; maybe grab one who went too far and beat him down for an example.

This is when you need a public lesson, she thought—

She chambered the gruesome idea and the will to act—just let one step out of line—

“So the Daoist bastards lock up women too, huh. Ha. So, rookie bitch, how’d you end up in the gutter?”

“Must be some world-class temptress, no?”

“Don’t play pricey—spit it out. We’re stuck listening to your voice for life anyway.”

Except—nothing of the sort?

Huh? Don’t these kinds of inmates usually go rabid for a woman, trying to mount anything with long hair sight unseen?

Qing had once served conscription in her hometown as a proper man.

Shut a bunch of pricks together and standards sink to the soles; she knew that.

If the hair’s long—no, even if the hair is short—anything looks pretty.

Just the fact she’s a woman makes even guys who never cared go rabid; career cultists of foreign singers suddenly lose their minds for little songstresses.

Granted, when service ends, they reset.

But the prisoners calling out to Qing on voice alone only asked why she’d been taken.

It’d be weird to demand, “Why aren’t you drooling when there’s a woman here?”

And—these guys think I was hauled in?

Didn’t they see them bringing in the fancy bed?

A wicked smile crept across Qing’s lips.

Maybe these five days will be fun.

“Me? Some lama monks were putting on airs, so I neatly took their arms and legs and hung them up.”

Qing let the needle drop.

And astonishingly, not a single inch of it was a lie.

“Listen to this bitch posing. You think hanging a handful of barbarians is something to brag about in here?”

“Posing? The lamas I hung numbered twelve. There were four more, but they died before I could hang them, so I tossed them.”

“Hmph. A mere sixteen? I am the famed Short-Life Swordsman. The men who died by my hand number well over the hundreds; and you brag about sixteen?”

“‘Short-Life Swordsman,’ my ass. You’re just a gutter rat who did a little cutting in some Gansu backwater, got caught, and ran all the way to this hick hole.”

“Hey now, Wang, come on—right in front of the rookie?”

“Heh heh. We’ve got more than a few great demon-blades infamous across the martial world in here, and you’re a measly regional unorthodox hack.”

Well well.

Qing’s brows twitched.

They really think that’s worth bragging about.

“I’m the Dark-Night Shining Saber. All of Central Plains hunted me; you’ve heard the name.”

“Dark-Night Shining Saber!”

Qing clapped along, for now.

“Dark-Night my foot—you’re a thug who robbed commoners. The main act here is Black Viper.”

“Black Viper!!—gasp!—how can this be!”

Perhaps her reactions pleased them.

As if they’d been waiting, a flood of boasting poured out.

Suddenly the mood turned into a nationwide crime show-and-tell.

That’s how groups get when they’re isolated.

In places cut off like this—where you can’t go outside and check—everyone’s tall tales erupt by default.

Remember early in service, back in basic? Any topic came up and it was the same.

Qing did her conscription and learned: somehow, every world-class gamer and arcade god had miraculously gathered in our barracks.

If the topic was wealth, everyone had been born with a silver spoon, parents owning factories, driving expensive cars.

If the topic turned to hardship, every last one became a tear-jerking victim of a blighted childhood.

And now, from boredom, a contest of “who’s the bigger bastard”?

What a clown show.

Only—odd?

It didn’t sound made up.

How they killed people.

A man who’d eaten human flesh described the flavor.

Another told in lavish detail how he burned down a small sect.

Mm. Real utter swine.

The amusing point: even among these, a pecking order seemed to exist.

The more heinous your deeds outside, the more recognition you got.

Listening on, they were arguing over whose evil was greater.

They were thriving—positively thriving.

Apparently life felt downright livable; every voice was coarse and full of life.

People everywhere are the same, it seems.

They said Repentance Hall was life without parole.

So they’d given up and decided to live out their days here.

They were so delighted a rookie had arrived they called out to her?

Which means they’ve got the leisure to feel boredom.

If it’s like this, wouldn’t it be better to just kill them?

Parboil them, or hack them to pieces, pack with salt and toss them in a heap until they beg for death and die—that would be kinder.

Keeping them alive only drains a sect’s coffers and saddles them with troublesome prisoners.

But still, a sect that went out of its way to keep them alive—she couldn’t just slaughter them all.

So—what then.

She’d just train her arts, then head out when time was up.