Chapter 618: I Am Wronged (8)

Qinghai is a land where even in midwinter the sun sets after six o’clock—its days run long.

From the little side window tucked to avoid the sleeping awning above, a blood-red afterglow poured into the cell.

It was also the moment every prisoner in Repentance Hall merely waited and waited for.

Dinner time!

Within half a day Qing understood perfectly why the prisoners of Repentance Hall showed such desperate gluttony.

There is nothing to do!

They do nothing!

Ah, there really is no pleasure here except eating.

If they at least imposed forced labor, that would be something; this is pure neglect.

Once food, clothing, and shelter are solved, boredom is what people fear most; so, indeed, this is how they inflict pain.

The Kunlun Daoists do know what they’re doing.

Still, Qing’s situation was different.

Her core was intact; she could at least sit and circulate.

With the status screen throttling efficiency, that circulation was stupidly bad—no fun, only frustration.

But there was nothing else to do.

Left and right kept nudging her to play knuckling marbles and High Chess—like I have time to sit with demonheads and play primitive, handmade board games.

Anyway, she endured even that seemingly endless stretch of cultivation.

In the end, the sun does go down.

And then fate swung open Repentance Hall’s sheet-iron door.

“Tonight is steamed carp and egg fried rice.”

Fate took the form of steamed carp and egg fried rice.

No one had wanted that fate; the prisoners’ faces darkened at once.

Carp isn’t tasty enough to steam.

But on Spring Festival tables, you never omit it—even as decoration—since it’s a lucky dish.

And egg fried rice—right, that’s what this is.

Master Danlun started his circuit, ladling one carp from a big pot and scoops of egg fried rice heaped in a basin.

Wait—those bowls... aren’t those the ones from lunch?

No wonder they licked them clean—that was the dishwashing?

Come to think of it, it would be odd for Kunlun Daoists to scrub the prisoners’ bowls.

After one round, Master Danlun stopped in front of Qing’s cell.

He made a show of thinking a moment, then—

“You stayed put even though your door was open. Commendable. I will give you dishes.”

“Wow, thank you!”

The prisoners, of course, wore dumbfounded looks.

Up front, Dumpling-Ear wasn’t just dumbfounded—he flared up and dared to protest.

“####, you going to keep bringing food to that #### until you fix that trash door? What kind of #### is that?”

“This one did not attempt escape though her cell is unsecured. That shows a commendable heart—deeply reflecting on her crimes and willing to pay. It is the bare minimum of being human. Thus I praise her and award her.”

Master Danlun wore a fishy smile.

Mm. The Daoist is enjoying himself.

“You—fifteen years locked up—and you still can’t bear to watch someone else receive a benefit. Your heart remains pitch-black and unwashed.”

The air suddenly went cold.

Silence so taut you could hear hair brush hair settled over Repentance Hall, fear-soaked.

What? Suddenly? Did Master Danlun have this much pressure all along?

“We housed many of you together here so that you would polish your hearts and truly face and grasp your past crimes. You have failed entirely. Therefore all will be punished together. There is no breakfast tomorrow.”

Gasps—sharp, strangled.

Qing’s eyes lit.

Collective responsibility, here?

Seemed it wasn’t their first time.

The prisoners only glared at Dumpling-Ear with murder in their eyes; none dared to argue.

In that hush, Master Danlun set down the serving tray.

“Ah. I’ll help.”

Qing casually opened her door and stepped out.

That ####—how long since she got praised—and she’s already walking out? Is she brain-dead?

As the prisoners froze even harder, Qing herself lifted the plates off the cart.

Master Danlun only nodded, as if it were natural.

The prisoners, struck dumb by the outrageous unfairness, forgot even the vanished breakfast and simply gaped.

Qing stacked the emptied lunch dishes onto the cart.

Master Danlun’s pupils trembled.

“You ate all that? Are you human?”

“With effort, it’s not impossible.”

“Then I must increase the portions tomorrow.”

“Eh, no. Honestly, lunch had me about to burst. It’s too much. Maybe cut the staples to three bowls.”

Five staples and five dishes at lunch.

Even cutting the staples to three, it’s still more than a human eats in one sitting.

“I see. So even this is too much.”

“Hey now, don’t give then take back. If I get hungry at night, I’ll need a midnight snack.”

Lunch had been five staples and five dishes.

Dinner, naturally, would be more—five staples and seven dishes.

He’d said she could eat to bursting while she was in Repentance Hall; evidently the Sect Leader intended to keep that promise to the letter.

Was he literally trying to burst me?

No matter my appetite, how am I supposed to eat five staples and seven dishes?

Of course, the Sect Leader had meant it as pampering a pretty junior—heap it on so she could eat widely and leave some.

“Ah—could I have a little of the egg fried rice too? I’ll be here in Repentance Hall; I should at least taste what the standard fare is like.”

“You ask much.”

“Ah. The carp—I’m fine without.”

“Tsk. Very well.”

Gruff reply notwithstanding, Master Danlun scooped her a handful of the egg fried rice.

“Right. Do well.”

“Yes! I’ll do well!”

And with that, the baseless “do well” cameo.

Then Master Danlun took his leave.

And then?

Qing’s life, the joy of her existence, her very reason for being.

All of it was for this moment—to eat—so why hesitate?

...Now she understood why the dinner menu had darkened the prisoners’ faces.

The egg fried rice was nicely done.

But the seasoning was far too mild.

The steamed carp broth looked suspiciously clear too—certainly bland.

Qing realized the Repentance Hall menu was low-salt.

They do nothing here, don’t even sweat; how much salt could idlers need?

One could feel the Kunlun Daoists’ “care,” as if to keep them living long in Repentance Hall.

So, of course, every eye fixated on Qing’s leftovers.

“Phew. I’m full.”

She didn’t force it like at lunch; the leftovers had a use, so she stopped short.

“Now then—time to hear a few more. Think there were three whose stories I still didn’t know.”

“That one there—he’s the—” “The Disguise Ghoul! The Disguise Ghoul!” “That bastard is a real piece of ####!”

They shouted over each other to be the one to talk—an outpouring of zeal.

“Shh. True to form, you demon brats have no marketplace ethics. The principal speaks first. Unless, of course, you don’t want to talk.”

A few unlucky ones who had paid their stories as dishwashers hunched with pitiful faces.

Qing wasn’t about to extend fairness to demonheads, so fine.

“Then this old man first—hear my tale!”

The remaining three:

An old serial killer.

His “wronged” plea: impostors had used his name to commit murders once his notoriety grew; what he’d done was only some of it.

A famous lecher-assassin.

His “wronged” plea: those women enjoyed it, too.

And another killer.

His claim: I too was forced into monstrosity by a horrific childhood; I’m the world’s scapegoat.

Qing recalled a proverb from home.

No grave without excuses.

How is it that of the twelve in Repentance Hall, eleven—everyone but the Butcher Demon old man—cry they’re “wronged”?

Of course, it didn’t surprise her; she always thought this:

People regret because they’re punished; to repent the wrong itself—you might find one in ten thousand.

Regret and repentance are entirely different.

Now that the story-selling had gone a round, it was time to begin in earnest on the original goal: fishing for inner arts.

I don’t need anything else—just inner cultivation methods.

I’m short on internal energy.

I may be the super-transcendent Flower Realm–Harmony–early-Translucent Qing with the Moon Maiden Sword—but what about when I reach the Translucent Realm?

A Translucent Realm cultivator with Translucent-level internal reserves?

Unacceptable.

This mostly useless Martial Archive (the Martial Archive may, very, extremely, exceedingly be wronged) was handy during the shallow-water stage, but the higher my realm, the more it’s dead weight.

Therefore: I need inner-cultivation methods.

I need to learn a bunch and increase my internal energy.

Only—

Qing’s intelligence—legendary for spiking when dealing with bad men—spiked now; she set her newly sharpened head to work.

I can’t baldly say, “I’ll trade leftovers for any inner-cultivation methods you know.”

If they learn I’m after inner methods, they’ll inflate the price and try to gouge me.

Worse, it’ll draw suspicion.

“Ah—so Kunlun planted a fake prisoner as a warder’s spy to extract martial arts,” they’ll say—and then it’s all for nothing.

So I have to whet their appetite until one of them blurts out a mnemonic first—“shut up and hand over the leftovers.”

I don’t need many.

Just one.

Once one speaks, the rest will beg, “Buy my martial arts—please buy mine.”

Here stands a woman dumping leftover food waste on them, and in return for that food waste she intends to pry out other people’s martial arts.

Who’s the great demonhead and who’s the Daoist? Their wickedness is neck-and-neck.

“Mm. There’s a lot of food left.”

“If it’s left—”

“Uh-uh. If something goes out, something must come back. Even like this, I will never give that up. This isn’t about ‘leftover’ or not. This is proof I live and proof I will live; it’s my—mine—my living, as natural as breathing and eating. If it isn’t natural, there’s a problem, right? You get me? I’d sooner flip that privy lid and dump it in—there is no free bliss. Or rather, because I’ll dump it in, you’ll have to wait.”

Blank looks all around.

Well, Qing herself didn’t know what she was saying; the words came out as they would.

To others’ ears—yeah.

But the will was clear: no freebies.

“####. What the #### are you even asking for? Look around—anyone here look like they have anything?”

“I don’t take because I need it. Handing over my stuff for free—ugh—gooseflesh, gooseflesh. How could I just give mine away? Does that make sense? I have to receive something to give. Whether I need what I receive is completely irrelevant.”

Even babbling, a tidy logic began to cohere.

“Mm. That’s true, too.”

Someone even agreed.

Dumpling-Ear spat curses at once.

Clearly lunch had left him with a solid grudge.

“True, my ####. No wonder you’re locked up—you live like that, you ####.”

“So what? I’m locked up anyway—why would I be generous here? Do they let me out if I am? If that were the case, I’d spend freely outside—why waste it here?”

“Ha. What a #### of a woman.”

Out of words, Dumpling-Ear drooled abuse.

Qing twisted her lips for his benefit.

“Alright, then—I’ll take anything. What was it at lunch—High Chess pieces? Fine. Flick-stones? I’ll make an exception and accept them. If you truly have nothing, cut off a finger and hand it over.”

Cut off a finger if you have nothing?

The prisoners of Repentance Hall accepted this in unison.

So that’s how a young woman wandered in here—never mind; they’d never seen one this vicious.