Chapter 661: A Cunning Mind, a Wicked Heart (5)

A new hole had been punched into the Sword-Cut Wall.

Only, unlike the original mark—the Heavenly Martial Emperor’s clean, two-fist-wide, exuberantly bored sword scar—this one was a smaller hole.

Long and slim, the cross-section looked exactly like the Moonlight Sword had passed through, yet when you peered in it was pitch-black; unlike the original, you couldn’t see daylight on the other side.

It was the trace of sword-qi that lost force mid-flight and winked out.

The Hollow Mountain disciples were sliiightly disappointed.

Hadn’t they heard that at Shaolin the sky and earth flipped over, and on that volcano blossoms of steel-qi whirled up like a dragon and burst into full bloom?

Yet what she’d actually shown was a single straight line of sword-qi shooting out without any prelude at all.

If this were Qing’s homeland, they’d have made a fuss and called it a “laser cannon” or a “destruction beam.”

Sadly, ancient Central Plain—still a primitive society before the development of civilization—couldn’t even imagine such a thing.

Of course, that’s just a way of speaking.

This was the Heavenly Martial Emperor’s ongoing maintenance—no matter how many days in a row you came and faithfully peered into the hole, you wouldn’t figure it out.

To take one quick glance and then nonchalantly lay down a move like that—Heavenly Flower Sword’s stately, dazzling bearing—was exactly the future and the pride of the orthodox martial world, wasn’t it?

Qing was thoroughly encouraged.

Huh. So, there’s a “power control” setting?

She roughly gauged the true-energy in her dantian.

She hadn’t done anything else—fully charged—i.e., “full-charge” status, when she stepped up to the Sword-Cut Wall.

Judging by her dantian, one run of this technique had burned roughly thirty percent of her inner power.

Naturally, the trade-off was a big drop in force.

Compared to the true form, calling this the same technique felt embarrassing—it was just an imitation.

If you had to name it, “power-regulated,” “simplified,” or even “degraded edition” would be the accurate labels.

At Qing’s current realm, this was exactly the best she could do without injuring her body.

It meant the gap between the Heavenly Martial Emperor and Qing was still that far.

But actually? I like this better.

In other words, she no longer had to dump all her true-energy in a single blast and, with the backlash, inflict massive damage on her meridians.

And for the missing force, Qing would wring out something beyond human—muscle and bone squeezed for every last drop.

Which was why she’d kept collapsing with total muscle ruptures and compound fractures all over; this meant she wouldn’t.

Although... why?

Because her understanding of the technique had deepened—and her understanding of her own body had, too.

A way to hit maximum output without wrecking herself—something she could vaguely do; something she couldn’t exactly put into tidy words but definitely knew.

At long last, the feeling of being a real professional.

Professionals don’t know the fine print.

Only the less professional know the fine print.

So when you ask a true professional, don’t you get answers like this?

“Uh, that’s just how it is. It just is. That... what was it—there’s a thing, and it’s because of that. That? You just get used to it.”

Only the less professional haul out every bit of textbook knowledge and attach a meticulous explanation.

Qing, now in mid-Harmony—the “expert” tier in martial arts—was likewise in the state of: “Mm, it works, but I don’t really know how to explain it.”

Or maybe it was because she had now broadly learned the opening three movements of the Dokgo Nine Sword Forms.

The front section of a master form is the entry stage; it lays the basic imagery and foundations.

Now that she’d understood the Heavenly Martial Emperor’s sincerity toward the Dokgo Forms—the mind gone mad for martial arts—the means landed with clearer force.

So it might have become usable as “mine,” customized to Qing.

Or else it might always have been possible, but that damned “Mucheong Daeje” kept getting in the way.

Honestly, how is a person supposed to use a technique while wrecking their own body?

Qing’s inner power was at Translucent-class, sure, but maybe that’s barely enough to run the Dokgo Forms at all.

There might have been some interference—some forced assist from her inner imaginal world.

“Oho! What is this technique called?”

“This one of mine is Without Poison, No True Man. My realm’s lacking so I couldn’t unfold it perfectly, but it’s a method that lives and dies by the ambush.”

“Without Poison, No True Man!”

The sect head let out a cry of admiration.

A word perfectly suited to Hollow Mountain’s spirit—as if coined expressly for the Hollow Mountain Sect.

“Martial arts are a means for killing; and human nature is cunning and venomous, so once power arises, one swings it to harm others.”

That was the imagery the Heavenly Martial Emperor had poured into it.

Hence he placed this vicious ambush squarely in the seat of “human” among Heaven–Earth–Human.

Not merely “in” the human seat—this sort of ambush, this unhesitating thrust through the enemy’s solar plexus, this viciousness was, he said, the human itself.

But this is not a condemnation of humans.

Nor is it a justification that, since a martialist studies, it’s only natural to kill with martial arts.

How could you blame humans because their inborn nature is cunning and their hearts are vicious?

Rather, you must be keenly aware of it and remember that in the end you are no more than human.

Because this is Without Poison, No True Man.

Because the third movement waited behind it.

The third movement, Be the Master Wherever You Stand.

Where you stand is the center of the world.

Only when you acknowledge that you harbor demon within and do not deny it can you finally stand properly—reach the earth.

“A teaching of Demon-Subduing.”

“Seems the Heavenly Martial Emperor rather liked Hollow Mountain’s martial ways.”

“Yes. It appears so.”

The sect head smiled gently.

Hollow Mountain’s arts had long been judged too saturated with killing intent—and excessively grotesque.

It was the standing worry in the hearts of disciples who proclaimed orthodox Daoism.

So wasn’t this both encouragement and recognition from the greatest martialist of all ages?

On the other hand, in shirking from the essence of learning arts that use weapons to harm the foe, had they become too bound to the outer look of being Daoists?

Perhaps for that reason, Hollow Mountain disciples began popping down cross-legged all over to sit in meditation.

The Heavenly Martial Emperor was the martialist who had traveled farthest in history; his recognition carried a persuasion to which they found themselves yielding—because it gave them conviction that they themselves were walking a right path.

And because that is the thing most needed by a martialist who always gropes ahead, unsure of the road.

Those of the sect who couldn’t quite catch a thread wore wistful eyes, gripped their weapons, held their breath, and assumed guardian-practice stances.

Well then. Outsiders should take their leave.

Even one word could now be a hindrance, so the sect head offered Qing a cupped-fist salute loaded with thanks.

——

Hollow Mountain had blessings rolling in one after another.

For all that people called their Daoists “masters of battle,” they were quite short on actual top experts; all the more reason the good news was a double celebration.

So it was only natural that the Hollow Mountain Daoists all turned out to see Qing off.

Led by the sect head, they pressed her to stay—today So-and-so’s commemoration, tomorrow So-and-so’s, the day after So-and-so’s—urging her to linger longer.

But there’s no reason to set up house at someone else’s sect when you have your own home.

Qing, for her part, had scored big results—and unlike before, she wasn’t bedridden with full-body compound injuries.

Therefore: departure.

Hollow Mountain straddled the very border between Gansu and Shaanxi; descend from the sect’s front gate along the proper mountain road and you are in Shaanxi.

Though the sect belongs to Gansu, it’s much nearer to Shaanxi—and comparing capitals, it’s actually closer to Xi’an (Chang’an) than to Lanzhou.

Pingliang, the sizeable city at the foot of Hollow Mountain, sits on the upper reaches of the Jing River.

The Jing meets the Wei River at Xi’an, a major waterway—meaning there’s a straight-through boat route to Chang’an in one go.

Regrettably, Qing’s Dragon King Pass is for the Yangtze system only; it doesn’t apply on the Jing, which flows into the Wei.

So she couldn’t just do as before—flash the Dragon King Pass and proclaim, “Carry me and you’ll have a chance at the mighty privilege of tax exemption.”

But even without the pass, look at the faces in this party.

Qing is rich.

Much richer than she herself realizes.

Peng Daesan is rich.

A scion so loaded he’s never once known the feeling of being short on coin.

Even Gyeon Pohee is rich.

At the front she can draw funds in the name of several merchant guilds on the spot; and failing that, if she serves as Qing’s attendant, that voucher book Grandpa Choi hands over is the original ancient blank chequebook with unlimited withdrawals.

And with that backing, Jayeo’s life, of course, was guaranteed never to lack for money.

Naturally, Seol Iri is dead broke—but that’s hardly surprising.

So Qing strode straight toward a first-class three-deck pleasure boat whose polish screamed money—but—

“Eh? No seats? Hm, are central-plains folk really all doing this well?”

If you’re touring the Central Plains, you’re not ordinary well-off.

Consider what it takes to be a tourist in this era.

You have to leave your seat and your business still runs fine; your property stays fine.

And this is a grim martial world with dangerous beasts—and far more dangerous human scum.

So you need the wealth to hire guards to protect you.

A “poor tourist” is just a beggar or a drifter; tourism is a privilege only the well-to-do can enjoy.

People rich enough to take a luxurious three-deck pleasure craft don’t put off their schedule just to earn a few taels more.

But parting with a large sum feels a bit wasteful.

A carriage would do; a boat is easier and faster, sure—but still.

A small boat?

Small boats are uncomfortable and risky; better to just take the carriage.

Qing was about to turn away with a regretful face when someone rushed out, grabbed her.

“Wait! Miss? Aren’t you the Miss!?”

“Hmm? Do you know me?”

“Ah, this humble one is Nam Sol, a steward of the Great Pure Trading House. Please, just call me Nam.”

“Ah, you’re with the Great Pure Trading House.”

“Please, speak casually. How could such a lowly one possibly bear formal address from a noble person like you?”

“But still—”

“I beg you—it’s been my life’s wish!”

Hm.

Great Pure Trading House—wasn’t that the firm Grandpa founded? Or was it not founded but some high post he held?

Either way, for that reason their people had a tendency to come out excessively low-postured.

Same for Seol Trading Company—the joint concern of that Seol rascal and Grandpa—but Great Pure’s folks were, how to put it, even more... groveling?

To the point I suspected Grandpa must really grind his employees.

Of course, the Great Pure staff would find that... sliiightly unfair.

Only “slightly,” because they do in fact want to grovel; even if it’s unfair, they’d rather endure it and get talked down to comfortably.

“Are you bound for Xi’an? In that case we would be honored to carry you—no, if you would permit us to carry you, it would be the glory of three lifetimes.”

“Eh? But the fellow just said there were no—”

Qing broke off.

The sailor who’d said there were no seats was somehow plastered to the floor, crown fully bared, forehead and all four limbs stuck to the deck in a full five-limb prostration.

“What on earth is this now.”

“This low slave had eyes yet failed to recognize a distinguished guest. If permitted, I will tear out both eyes to atone!”

In the Central Plains, gold is only a second-rate means.

First-rate—the very best—is connections.

That is to say: relationships!

“No seats means no seats, of course—how can there be seats for some people and not for others? You did your job; why prostrate and apologize? Up you get.”

“Ahhh, how compassionate you are... mercy warm as the sun...”

Qing let out a long sigh.

The shameless flattery, honestly.

I can’t help but reasonably suspect that if I say one kind word, suddenly their performance review fills with ten thousand points and they get promoted to some plush post.

Frankly, if it’s Grandpa, that sounds perfectly plausible.