Chapter 667: The New Semester Has Begun (1)

The Righteous-Proper Martial Academy opens in Nosan County, Henan.

For Qing, the name felt a little ill-omened.

Nosan? Again with “No-Mountain”?

But it was only the county’s name; there was no Nosan itself—only the high White-Cloud Mountain standing in its place.

A Nosan County without a Nosan.

As for why the academy sits some seven-tenths up the deep slopes of White-Cloud Mountain instead of staying nicely in Kaifeng, the reason was simple.

Because there is a mountain there.

Exactly a mountaineer’s frame of mind.

For youths still growing into warriors, you could harp on the importance of mountains and never be done.

A mountain, by itself, clears the mind and mends the body; simply let them roam and their muscles will come in, their bones harden, their skin toughen.

On top of that, there’s water, abundant forage, and easy timber and firewood.

And that’s not all.

Cut off from civilian homes—cut off from the world—there’s no setup for goofing off, so naturally you throw yourself into training.

How else did every legendary warrior of folk tales end up coming out of a mountain?

Someday, even in some unimaginable future, wouldn’t people in Qing’s homeland swear that a proper school belongs on a mountain?

Schools have descended far down, true, but dorm-style academies or prayer-and-cultivation retreats—any education that requires training—still tuck themselves away in remote, empty mountains. That’s why.

Anyway.

It had been a while since the Dragon King’s Divine Lady came down shaking the Dragon-King Plaque; the Dragon King is a water god with almighty authority, free even from taxes.

Lured by that radiance, one lucky boat owner was born—and it was a pity their time together from Jagui to Hyeongju was so short.

From Hyeongju, the journey was simply: keep on north.

Stamp Hyeongmun, stamp Yangyang, pass Nanyang, and on and on—

Thus, Pacified-Mountain!

Not a mountain, but a city’s name.

A great city of over a hundred thousand souls, yet, because it happens to be in Henan, an unlucky city that can’t even show its name card when it comes to population.

Luoyang, Zhengzhou, Kaifeng, Xuchang, Yeo-nam, Puyang—how many cities are famous for their history and sheer scale?

Henan once fed the whole tight middle plains and stood as the era’s center; it’s the finest granary there ever was.

It was also the city hosting the first-round entrance exam for the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy.

With the crush of people, you obviously couldn’t hold the test out on the remote skirt of White-Cloud Mountain.

Sure, you could somehow feed and lodge the overflowing applicants in the hills if you insisted—but there was no reason to go that far.

So Pacified-Mountain City writhed with a baking heat of dreamers.

Warriors crowding in, each chasing a wind-and-cloud destiny.

The city’s face was as bright as the guests were many.

Ordinarily, when this many warriors gather, trouble is inevitable.

But with the Martial Alliance’s exam upon them, whether for the sake of the test or because they feared the Alliance experts serving as examiners—surely no one would dare to cause—

CRASH!

—surely someone would.

Qing’s head snapped around.

A young man burst through a second-floor paper door and leapt—whether his martial arts were lousy or his panic that great, he went down hard in a splat.

Despite how painful it looked, he sprang up and, of all directions, sprinted toward this side—while behind him, another youth jumped with a blade in hand.

“Die, foe of my house!”

At the shout from the pursuer, the warriors who’d been about to interpose with weapons halted mid-motion.

A foe of the house, he said.

For those of the Middle Plains, a household foe is a grave matter.

If you don’t avenge it, you’re stripped of the very qualification to be human; people won’t treat you as a person.

“Hey, damn it! Why me— it’s not me—urk!”

The fleeing youth—the “foe” one—suddenly tumbled and rolled.

Someone had thrust a scabbard across.

It caught the charging avenger clean at the neck; his lower half pitched up and he could only go flying.

“Gkh— hff.”

The avenger rasped for air and rolled on the ground.

“Benefactor! Thank you for your aid!”

With that cry, the pursuer faced a certain side and offered a one-handed clasped-fist salute.

Then the tendons swelled along the hand gripping his sword; face contorted, he strode straight for the “foe” youth writhing on the floor.

The murder in his eyes was so rough that anyone could see he meant to finish it right now.

“Eek— wait, let’s talk! Let’s talk this out.”

Scooting backward on his seat and crab-crawling, the “foe” youth shouted in a trembling voice.

Then—thunk—his back suddenly pressed against something, so he only flailed, sweeping uselessly at the floor.

Because behind him, a veiled woman holding a child had lifted her foot and stopped him with her sole.

A few years ago, a veiled woman would have been an oddity drawing every eye.

Lately, “Heavenly Flower Fashion” kept the veil craze going, so it was a common getup.

Granted, the person who started that fashion was present this time.

Meanwhile the pursuer was closing the distance in long strides, so Qing gave a stern voice.

“Enough.”

It was a cluster of veiled women.

One tall woman, another on the tall side, a child standing and a child held—no fewer than four veils at once.

More than that, the tall woman currently bracing the man’s back had a frankly alarming armament.

On her back, a colossal greatsword that would tax even a man.

At her waist, two sheathed blades, one long and one short—or rather, on a {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} closer look, the short one was an unusually adorned dagger, and the other a black-stained iron flute with an ill-omened color.

“I don’t know which senior you may be, but I am So Eumjo. That man is the foe of my house—”

“Yeah, no. You’re about to kill a man in front of a child. Of course we stop you.”

Qing snapped.

Both men flinched.

One was the pursuer youth, So Eumjo; the other was Jayeo.

Jayeo, whose lusterless eyes were at last sparkling as he watched this with keen interest—Qing’s words could only startle him.

“Then I’ll take him away.”

“Hm.”

Qing looked over the pair.

Normally, Qing had no reason to stand in the way of someone avenging a household foe.

She had used Jayeo as an excuse, but honestly—what great harm would it be if the child happened to see a bit more blood now?

This was a primitive, ancient Middle Plains world, brutal beyond her homeland, and even back home she didn’t know if the Middle Plains had always had customs like these—but in the rivers and lakes, she wasn’t sure seeing blood was some moral line you had to avoid at all costs.

It was simply that Qing’s work-eyes were on again after a while—that is, those Western numerals engraved above the heads of the two youths bothered her.

She didn’t know the exact arithmetic, but objectively speaking, bad karma and good karma lined up roughly well enough.

There’s debate about whether past evils can be offset by present good—or the reverse, whether a fundamentally good person may commit some evil—but you could still tell how a person had largely lived, unless they were some perverse killer who murdered as many as they saved.

The pursuer youth’s bad karma ticked just over ten. For these Middle Plains, that meant he’d led a fairly harmless life.

The fleeing youth’s good karma was a full thirteen.

“You say you’re avenging your house—I’ve heard you. What about him? He clearly said it isn’t him.”

“He’s lying. That cur is On Bihu, eldest son of the On Family House—filthy scum. Ask anyone in Eomchang and they’ll gladly testify to the On Family’s atrocities.”

“What was that? Eomchang?”

Did I hear that right?

Wait, they have this kind of naming here too?

“Yes. Eomchang County in Jiangxi.”

“Ah. Eomchang County.”

So it was a place name.

Come to think of it, Jiangxi’s provincial capital—its central city—was Nanchang.

Something’s off with that region’s naming, isn’t it?

Then again, the Middle Plains has no shortage of cities with -chang tacked on.

More to the point, the On Family House.

Groups with “House” or “Hall” at the end tend to be half tradesmen, half warriors.

And most of the time, they skew a bit wicked.

A merchant’s selfishness and a warrior’s cruelty—most of them take the worst of both trades.

Qing had had enough of them back in the twin-Guang region.

“Mm. That’s your claim. Is it true?”

“I am the eldest son of the On Family House; and yes, the On Family House are unorthodox bastards who deserve the chopping block—but I’m innocent, truly. I ran away because I refused to live as a gutter-born unorthodox wretch in that damned household. Why should I shoulder their grudges...?”

A chorus went up: “Boo—trash.”

The ruling ideal of the Middle Plains is filial piety.

Even if your clan is a shameful pack of depraved human refuse, a son—let alone the eldest—doesn’t say that.

The East has always wielded that as a weapon; in Qing’s own ancestral culture, there’s the classic of Kim Satgat.

He cursed a traitor—only to find out it was his father.

No matter how heinous, a son who slanders his father loses his qualification to be human.

Unable to face the sky, he pulled his conical hat low; unable to belong to the earth, he wandered all his life.

Qing didn’t get it.

If you hate your house and ran away, isn’t that the end?

And his good karma says he’s lived straight.

“Mm. Even so—lumping him in as a foe just because he was born into that house—do you really think that’s right?”

“The On Family House was nothing but a small distillery. They murdered my grandfather, stole the business, and built their great success. My house was destroyed. My father spat blood until his last day, and even then couldn’t close his eyes, cursing those damned degenerates.”

With a cold eye at On Bihu, So Eumjo continued.

“Everything that cur enjoyed—his comfortable life—came from my house.”

“Mm, and yet, against a man who cut ties and left—that’s a bit much.”

Collective guilt—the system by which the parent’s crime is inherited by the child.

East and West alike made good use of humanity’s strongest instrument of rule, holding children hostage so no one would dare commit crimes: a brutally effective deterrent.

It just isn’t right.

Qing was about to set her mind.

“Worse—he was sickly from childhood. Only the finest physicians and rarest medicines kept him alive. Do you call a man innocent when he lived by drinking my house’s blood-tears?”

“Ah, hell. Now it’s murky.”

Qing slid a hand under the veil and scratched the nape of her neck.

If you won’t pass down guilt, then you shouldn’t pass down assets either.

Passing down the good and not the bad—how is that not cheap and unfair?

If a swindler’s child got the best schooling and countless chances on money wrung from others—and made it big—was that child truly innocent?

The defrauded house is shattered; once a house collapses, it tends to stay collapsed. The victim’s children are stripped of chances and benefits that should have been theirs.

“But I’m innocent—what did I do wrong? If I’d known, I’d have refused treatment—but I was still a kid, and I didn’t even know my house was that vicious...”

With a heavy eye, Qing looked at On Bihu’s good-karma score.

If only he were brazen.

His manner was weak; his voice held no strength. It was obvious what sort he was at a glance.

The kind who can’t stand to see others troubled and can’t bring himself to refuse a favor—a spineless “good fellow.”

Qing let out a long, deep sigh.

Truth is, her mind was already made up.