Chapter 659: A Cunning Mind, a Wicked Heart (3)

The most striking odd weapon from today’s lesson was bamboo.

Not a bamboo spear—literally a stalk of bamboo.

You lop nothing off but the tip, leaving the branches on, and sharpen only the very end. Its name was the Wolf-Broom.

An ancient, primitive weapon that, surprisingly, proved useful in countless real fights—and a weapon the nation’s troops currently praise and use.

The leaves block the eyes and the branches catch blades—offense and defense as one.

Granted, the same nuisance applies to the wielder of the Wolf-Broom, but in a master’s hands the same weapon is another creature altogether.

Finish a vicious upgrade by fixing extra blades onto the jutting branches and it even rebirths as a fairly sublime endgame weapon.

Above all, it’s easy to make.

Cut the bamboo at bottom and top. Done.

What impressed Qing was that you don’t even need bamboo to get similar effect.

So unlike the barren plateau’s naked hills, when she looked at the Central Plains’ lush forests—hm, that branch looks serviceable.

If I thrust with it, it’ll be awfully stout.

That sort of vicious thought—one could say the spirit of Stratagem Arms, the weaponization of all things, vividly in practice.

Having finished a rare, meat-packed, satisfying session, she had just returned to the guest quarters.

In the yard outside, two people stuck together and one person pointlessly loitering nearby all came into Qing’s view at once.

The two stuck together were Jayeo and Peng Daesan, while Seol Iri, somehow not fitting in, stood off to the side in a strangely left-out pose.

What is this scene?

Don’t tell me, Peng Daesan, with that smooth face you went and seduced a little kid!?

Come to think of it, “San” might be utterly harmful to a child’s education.

If she gets used to San, won’t the faces of the realm’s men all look like dried squid or at best fresh baby squid?

To keep her eyes from migrating to her scalp and then ascending to look down like starlight, maybe San needs to be quarantined?

“What is this? Men and women should not sit together at seven years old; the separation of men and women is the strictest law under heaven.”

Jayeo’s head snapped around.

Then—pitter-patter—she churned those short legs and charged.

Qing threw her arms wide to catch her; but the girl who always reads the room skidded to a stop right before impact and peered up, timid.

If you’re a kid, body-check like a kid—who’s been crushing our girl’s spirit like this?

A tiny hand tug-tugged at Qing’s sleeve.

She could’ve taken my hand, but instead, shyly tugging my sleeve—mm. We’ve still got a long road.

“Why?”

Still, the very act of tug-tugging to say come here—that’s one step forward.

Letting herself be dragged with a show of reluctance, Qing sat on the guest-hall veranda as Jayeo spread out a yellowish paper.

Then, gripping the brush in her fist, she began to write something rough that was nevertheless sort of like characters.

Parent, Mother, Man, Woman, Tiger. Child.

She must have wanted to brag she’d memorized the characters.

Qing was thunderstruck.

“What, six characters already? Damn, Ximen Jayeo—were you actually an end-of-the-century super-prodigy?”

Qing hugged Jayeo tight. “Kihit,” came the child’s laugh—rather gloomy, but anyway.

Now that she looked, the floor was covered with traces of characters; it seemed Peng Daesan had been writing letters for Jayeo.

Only, if writing them made children memorize them, she’d have finished the Thousand-Character Classic ages ago.

Isn’t she the era’s super-prodigy who, teach ten and she learns one, then forgets it by the next day as if it never happened?

How on earth six characters?

Does the Peng House have a secret teaching method?

“What, San. I didn’t know you had a knack for child education. Our blockhead—no, how did you teach six characters in a day?”

“Hmph. The difference lies in the teacher.”

“I graduated the Royal Academy, you know. And you aren’t even from the strategist track, though for a stupid person you’re serviceable.”

“What strategist track now?”

“You know—the kind like Jegal or Nana who rely on brains while their personal combat power is trash? That Miss Sima fits in there too, no?”

Peng Daesan pictured the three, then reached a swift conclusion.

“Let’s just stick them all in the ‘dumb’ bucket.”

“When the body’s good, the brain has it easy. It’s because the body’s bad that you use the brain.”

“What does that even—”

Peng Daesan was speechless at the brain-stopping nonsense.

What in the world was that bizarre line?

“Anyway. So how did you do it? How in the world do you get a child to memorize six characters in a single day? Beauty trap? If she memorizes a character, you reward her by making eye contact—that kind of cheap trick?”

“I didn’t particularly do anything.”

Peng Daesan flatly denied having any special child-education secret.

Qing snapped her head to look at Seol Iri.

“True?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“He talked a lot.”

“Eh. San?”

“And he, like, pretended to have a gentle voice.”

Listening to Seol Iri’s report, Qing had a thought.

Gunyeong’s manner of speech seems to be turning more and more childlike; first-person self-reference as “Gunyeong,” and on top of that “like, like”?

A woman past twenty saying “like, like”?

Shouldn’t this be banned by national law?

Granted—she’s pretty, so she’s forgiven.

Qing turned her questioning eyes back on Peng Daesan.

In truth, one of the main prejudices about the Hebei Peng House is that their offspring are born with natural might—strong and healthy—but with rock-for-brains.

In Hebei Peng House they dismiss it as absurd slander.

In truth—it isn’t entirely wrong.

The famous Jegal and Sima children recite books by rote before they’re even ten; Namgung and Moyong and Eon are famed for unity of letters and arms—sturdy in body and brilliant of head.

Compared to them, “Peng House is ignorant” has been said without interruption since long ago.

As the eastern barbarian proverb goes, would smoke rise from an unswept chimney? Words that persist for ages have their grounds.

Of course, that’s within the “great houses” of the Central Plains.

Even if Peng House is “ignorant,” you don’t compare them to the town’s common homes.

For reference, the other “dull” houses among the Ten Great Houses are, besides Hebei Peng, the Hwangbo House and the Black Dragon Claw House.

On this, the Peng House’s stance is firm.

Their temperament is valorous and their nature quick; they simply set no will on letters—by no means are they stupid.

In short: our kid isn’t dumb, he just doesn’t study.

As nearly every parent claims—but anyway.

So Peng House long pondered how to make a child study; thus, an accumulation of child-education guidelines has been passed down as a house secret.

So-called Easy and Fun Character Study!

“It’s hard to explain. I just do as I was taught. There’s no particular set of instructions.”

“Mm. Even a grub has a knack for rolling, they say.”

Having taught well only to be called a grub, Peng Daesan’s brow twitched.

But—how truly unexpected this was.

Maybe I really should park us at the Peng House for a while?

Frankly, if Jayeo were at the Divine Lady’s Gate, wouldn’t everyone line up with number tickets to “play” with her?

I doubt she’d learn characters or martial arts in that environment.

Mencius’s revered mother moved three times to educate him and made a great sage; me shamelessly mooching and lingering—why not.

Which made another thought pop up.

Then it doesn’t have to be the Peng House, does it?

If we loitered at the Jegal House—hm, no. With Hyang there beside her, that wouldn’t do.

Not if we don’t want to crush the child’s spirit.

Anyway, it felt like a matter worth serious thought.

Jayeo should have a peer or two, too.

The next day was the day for Qing to view the Sword-Cut Wall—and for Hollow Mountain’s warriors to witness a demonstration of the Heavenly Martial Emperor’s movement.

Only, the schedule was oddly late—they said we’d go at dusk, before dinner.

So until then, Qing planned to steal and learn a bit of Peng Daesan’s child-education.

“Mm.”

“Why?”

“Mmm.”

According to Seol Iri’s testimony, Peng Daesan spun old tales in the gentlest voice in the world, then at some point naturally bridged into characters and drew out the child’s interest.

Only, he kept sneaking glances, plainly uncomfortable.

Embarrassed to have an audience, it seemed.

So what can you do.

You can’t miss the miracle of getting a child to memorize six characters in one day.

You have to clear out.

—Or so she claimed.

Leaving the guest quarters, Qing hid in a tree at a distance and set out to uncover the truth of “education at eye level.”

Thus did inhuman sight and hearing capture the reality of that “kindly” fresh smile blooming on that sleek face—and the ultra-low-frequency, heavy timbre.

Only—mm.

Ugh, greasy. Like he’d chugged a bowl of sesame oil.

No wonder he was bashful about being watched.

My hands and feet are curling so hard it’s painful to witness.

But why is it embarrassing when I watch, yet it’s fine when Gunyeong lurks around Jayeo?

They’re both treating her like she’s barely there.

Both San and Jayeo.

When her focus slipped a bit, Jayeo would scamper off and throw herself into Gyeon Pohee’s arms; then Hee-mae would carry the child about.

Seol Iri, meanwhile, would shuffle around at an awkward distance doing nothing.

Mm. What is Gunyeong’s role, exactly?

Trying to be friendly, she hovers nearby—only to do nothing but hover.

After lunch, as the overbearing delinquent parent restarted afternoon surveillance, her head dipped.

Haahm—after lunch I’m a little sleepy...

In the end, perched in the tree, Qing hugged the trunk tight and drifted into a nap.

Because the venue wasn’t as cramped as at Kunlun, a bustling mass of Hollow Mountain warriors followed behind our party as we headed for the Sword-Cut Wall on the far side of Hollow Mountain.

Qing’s impression of the Wall was—

Hm. This is... awfully modest.

At the base of the cliff, about navel height for a person—

a hole, about the size of two fists, punched clean through.

Compared to the Sword-Cut Walls she’d seen so far, it was a very simple composition.

And what is a Sword-Cut Wall?

A colossal sword mark that clawed the cliff and left a great wound—the vivid evidence of vast environmental destruction, the crime of nature wrecking the Heavenly Martial Emperor committed.

But—good grief, one hole?

Two fists across—I could drill that myself.

Qing was just managing to hide her disappointment when—

Faint red afterglow flowed in the hole.

And then she knew why we’d waited until dusk to come.

The hole was bored clear through to the other side.

When Qing bent to match the height, the sight beyond—the setting sun’s thin rim, and Hollow Mountain hanging in its frame—clicked into place.

Excuse me, what.

What do you do to drill a cave into a mountain with swordsmanship?

If Senior Heavenly Martial Emperor (the original) released only a single movement, that means one release pierced the cliff and reached the far side.

If one stroke makes a hole the size of two hearts, then in roughly two or three hundred repetitions you’d bore a tunnel clean through, no?

If he weren’t a martial artist but a carpenter, he could’ve been responsible for all ancient Central Plains civil engineering.

No—at the scale of cutting a road through a mountain, that’s near what we’d call history.

Like the man who once dammed a river and was worshiped as a god of flood control, shrines would be raised everywhere to the god of construction; he might even have snagged himself a Daoist immortal’s seat.

At that moment—

PAK! A kick landed square on Qing’s enormous butt. She pitched forward, flipped, and skidded to a stop facing back.

“Hey! Seriously? Now you’re kicking people?”

“Hmph. A grown woman, without shame, sticking her rear out and presenting it in front of her elders—my breath caught, that’s why.”

The Heavenly Martial Emperor snorted. “Hmph.”

“I’ve lived to see it all. What sort of manners are those?”

But Qing was wronged.

She bent because the hole was at navel height.

By a woman’s center of pelvic weight, when she bends, of course the hips stick straight back.

And you show up behind me and complain I’m sticking my rear out?

You drilled the hole—if you’d drilled it at head height, I wouldn’t have had to bend.

Qing’s lips jutted in a pout.