Chapter 619: I Am Wronged (9)

It would’ve been perfectly fair to say, “This is filthy and petty; I refuse to buy it,” and leave it at that.

But monopoly, by its very nature, stays vicious precisely because even when it’s filthy and petty, there’s nothing you can do about it.

Steamed Carp on top of an already bland breakfast.

Steamed Carp is the sort of dish where even the World’s-Best Chef can’t quite kill the fishy reek and ends up dusting it with aromatics; done “clean and plain” like this, the earth-smell rises, the seasoning is weak, and the bones—why in hell are there so many goddamn bones?

And in the middle of all this, there’s exactly one person selling something that actually tastes good.

Quantity is limited, so whoever buys first owns it, right?

Hence the leftover trade is booming.

This time I’ve got plenty of plates, and I didn’t stubbornly stuff myself like at lunch, so there’s a fair amount I can sell off.

Carrying a big platter, Qing stops at the last cell—before the Butcher Demon’s bars—and curls a sly smile.

“Hm? Old man, I don’t see the meat I dropped earlier. Did you eat it by any chance?”

The Butcher Demon just sat cross-legged and pretended to be deaf, like he couldn’t be bothered.

Translation: a famed two-character-epithet demonhead doesn’t spar with small-time punks.

What, you bragging that you’re the nastiest bastard in here?

By now Qing had already collected the jaw-dropping legends of the “Butcher Demon” from thirty years back.

Murder, robbery, kidnapping, rape, human trafficking, cannibalism, fraud—every sin a human can commit, he committed.

It got so bad the elite seniors of the Martial Alliance moved personally, and even the Unorthodox Alliance looked the other way and dumped their own expert.

Letting him be any longer and the magistracy would have marched in themselves; from the Unorthodox Alliance’s side, cutting him off was inevitable.

“Old man, don’t want any food?”

With a plate in one hand and chopsticks in the other, Qing rolls a thick, meaty pork rib in chili oil and flicks it down in front of the Butcher Demon.

“Whoops, my hand slipped again. Damn—was saving that for a midnight snack. Sorry, old man, can you toss it for me? A demonhead as big as the Butcher Demon wouldn’t stoop to eating what fell on the floor like a mutt... right?”

Snickering, Qing strolls off.

Everything else sells out, of course.

People even reach for the dishwashing, offering to buy the privilege; I leave half the plates expressly so they can mix the lightly seasoned Egg Fried Rice into them. Naturally it’s a hit.

What Qing gets for it are plates polished mirror-bright yet somehow disgusting to behold—and a rain of flick-stones and High Chess pieces: seven matched sets of the latter.

In short, the entire stash of flick-stones and game pieces in the Repentance Hall.

Truth is, after watching half a day, they weren’t really playing anymore.

They were sick of it.

When you’ve only got one toy for ages, skills stratify, you grind through thousands of games with the same faces, and of course your interest dies.

They’ve been pestering me only because a new face came in and finally pried their curiosity awake.

But having toys versus having none feels completely different.

If you can play anytime, you toss them aside without a thought; block it off, and suddenly you’re desperate to play.

With their toys confiscated, won’t they be bored out of their skulls tomorrow?

Qing looked over the piled spoils and smiled, wicked and satisfied.

****

Clang-clang-clang-clang—an obnoxious bell.

Qing jolted upright.

Unfamiliar room, unfamiliar ceiling.

Oh. Right. Repentance Hall.

Clang-clang-clang-clang-clang—the bright, slicing peal bored through the Repentance Hall like it wanted to split eardrums.

Pre-dawn dark; beyond the little window, the world was barely a navy smear.

Qing lifted the curtain and peeked out; movement everywhere, and—there we go—the usual “ah, fuck” mutters leaking out.

After a solid quarter-hour of merciless ringing, the bell finally stopped. Sleep? Gone.

Qing glanced around to see why it was so loud—and there it was: the bell hung in the interior corridor of the Repentance Hall.

Looks like there’s a rope outside that they yank like mad.

“Fuck. If I could sleep in just one day in my life, I’d die happy.”

No one’s even groaning; they’re just staying in bed behind their curtains.

Another stretch—about a quarter-hour.

Clang-clang-clang-clang-clang-clang—again the bell went berserk, razoring the air and waking the inmates a second time.

Rest a quarter-hour, ring a quarter-hour—four cycles, a full double-hour of torment.

Even the dullest nerves break under four rounds, four quarter-hours—half a double-hour—of bell-attack.

Only then did a long sigh of relief drift through the Repentance Hall.

So this is every damn day.

Hmm. Low-salt diet.

This wake-up bell routine.

It looks like they “take care” of you, yet it feels like abandonment—and also like there’s a meticulous streak of malice running through it all.

Huh. The Daoist elders are pretty good at this.

Ripping people out of sleep like that. Nothing spikes your temper like getting yanked awake.

Morning, day two in the Repentance Hall.

“When’s breakfast?”

“There is no breakfast. Because of that shithead.”

“Right. If I’d met that bastard on the rivers and lakes, I’d have beaten him to death.”

Visibly deflating at the news there’s no breakfast, the inmates slunk back behind their curtains and onto their bunks.

Uh... wait. Do I not get breakfast either?

Should’ve saved a little instead of flooding the block with leftovers yesterday.

Breakfast is the ritual that starts the day—kind of the most important piece...

Of course, if I absolutely want to eat, I could just step out and grab something.

But that’d look suspicious, wouldn’t it?

Maybe I say I’m going to the latrine?

Qing was calculating how to step out “naturally” when—

The Repentance Hall door swung open.

Rrrk—wheels of a food cart; thump-thump—scramble of feet as inmates rushed up to the bars, eyes blazing.

The level of expectation was like: the door opens and the beloved walks in.

But the cart held only lidded dishes—no cauldrons piled with bulk rations like yesterday.

“As I said yesterday, you lot don’t get breakfast. Newbie—been doing well?”

“Yes, I’ve been doing well!”

“Excellent. You deserve a reward.”

“Oh! You shouldn’t have. I’ll carry them.”

Qing met his eyes sidelong.

The usual deadpan—yet a definite glint of mischief.

So Master Danlun was enjoying himself thoroughly.

Don’t tell me this is what the Repentance Hall is for—

To take turns locking disciples in here to tease demonheads?

Still—breakfast delivery is a joy.

Especially when you weren’t expecting it; it lands like a surprise gift, twice as sweet.

On the other hand—is this okay?

Won’t it look too suspicious?

“Told you he’s the worst bastard.”

“He starves us on a technicality and then wolfs his meal right in front of us—what kind of priest does that? Fucking dog-faced bastard.”

“He keeps volunteering for duty just to pull this shit, right? Isn’t today the rotation? Maybe we’re rid of that cock-eyed bastard—wait, what’s with his cock-eye? They say he hit Super-transcendent?”

“Even that kind of bastard hits Super-transcendent in a Daoist sect. I thought a demon’s temper kept you from it.”

Ah. Master Danlun—a repeat offender.

No wonder he forced the issue while serving food; looks like he does this now and then, teasing the demonheads.

Break them, lock them, wake them, low-salt them, neglect them, then needle their souls—

Put together, it’s hard not to conclude the Repentance Hall exists to keep demonheads alive so they can be toyed with for a long, long time.

Anyway—it’s great for me.

Breakfast sales will be brisk.

Chewing sounds inside the Repentance Hall; thick aromas of food; loud gulps of saliva from those with nothing.

After a stretch of that, at last—the voice everyone was waiting for:

“Alright, who wants to buy breakfast today? You all thought last night about what you’ll sell to pay for it, didn’t you?”

“Me! Me!” “Newbie! Over here! Me!”

A chorus of fervent demonheads—

Just as Qing said, they’d spent the entire night fretting over what to sell.

“Well, there’s plenty of dishes. Who starts? You, next door. Poison Quack—what are you offering?”

“Hm. I’ve got a secret recipe for a poison. Will you buy?”

“Poison? Is it stronger than Blood Venom?”

“Blood Venom? What poison is that?”

Huh? Not famous?

If even the Head of the Seol Trading Company knew of it, I figured it had a decent reputation.

“You don’t know Blood Venom? Sir Sa Sa’s Blood Venom.”

“Sir Sa Sa? Who’s that? A demonhead active outside right now?”

Ah. So it’s not that Blood Venom isn’t famous—it’s a generation gap.

Cut off from outside news, even Sir Sa Sa’s magnum opus—fairly well-known—never reached the Repentance Hall.

“Right. You don’t know Sir Sa Sa. It’s a poison that feels like your whole body is being eaten by ants. I don’t know its composition, but unless it’s stronger than that, meh.”

“Hm. I assumed this was just for killing time anyway.”

Qing snorted through her nose.

“You’re under a misunderstanding. I’m not planning to live here with you lot. If I walk out of here with nothing but my body, what am I going to live on? Your cores are shattered, your meridians cut—what, you going to do day labor? Then I need things to sell once I’m out there, don’t I?”

“Escape? Dream on, bitch. You think the demonheads flying and crawling in here are sprawled out because it’s comfy?”

“We’ll see. Anyway—means I’ve got to secure my livelihood. You’re stuck in here either way, and it’s not like I’ve been stingy with the food, have I?”

“Hm.”

This wasn’t the first “I’ll break out” from a newbie.

Every demonhead in here once came in and declared they’d make it out.

No point wasting breath telling her it’s impossible.

Which is why Qing tossed it out so casually.

Who here hasn’t tried to break out?

If they believe it’s impossible, they’ll figure, “Sure, sell it outside if you can,” and hand over sensitive information without blinking.

So Qing stepped past the bars again and weighed each offer.

Truth is, she wasn’t interested; if she accepted any old thing, she’d be selling leftovers all five days and never hear a whisper about inner cultivation methods.

Qing looked to the last cell—the Butcher Demon.

Still sitting, august and cross-legged.

But she didn’t miss the faint stains at the corners of his mouth—the yellowish smears from wiping off chili oil.

Chili oil, when it meets pork fat, turns into a vicious grime that won’t come out even with a good soapy scrub.

I threw him pork ribs; no matter how neatly you eat, it’s hard not to smear a spot somewhere.

So the old man picked it up and ate it after all.

From the far side, the opium junkie piped up in his oily, ingratiating voice.

“Newbie! How about this? The formula for Paradise Immortal Incense!”

“Paradise Immortal Incense? You mean opium?”

“That’s right. One puff and you’re on a trip to paradise! Aren’t you curious?”

“Hm. Ever heard of ‘ice’?”

“Ice? What’s that?”

“Nobody heats and smokes like a bumpkin anymore. Reek like that and you get caught. They grind it and rail it or stick it to the roof of the mouth. Your ‘paradise incense’ is a fad from decades ago.”

Granted, drugs in the Central Plains haven’t evolved that far—yet.

But what’s he going to do, check the market himself?

I can bluff all I want.

“Gasp—already that advanced, newbie? Could you... elaborate?”

“I haven’t done it, so I don’t know details. But they say it blows your mind.”

He collapsed with a thud.

Looked genuinely shaken.

Was that really worth fainting over?

“Don’t you have anything that isn’t stale? Who’s the most recent arrival here?”

“The Adulterer over there—eleven years ago. He’s the last one in.”

“Oh, big killer. Nothing’s free, so here—one piece of meat. And the latest intel is from eleven years ago? Useless, the lot of you.”

Qing let out a long sigh.

Inside, she was getting antsy.

C’mon, let just one of you bite. One opens up, and the rest will spill their guts in a frenzy.

Then—

A voice she did not expect breathed right by Qing’s ear.

“What a ridiculous woman. Escape? Try it if you have the skill. But tell me—are you going to sell one of the Ten Great Demonic Arts, too?”

...Huh. The Ten Great Demonic Arts? In here?