Chapter 702: Instructor Bureau (6)

In truth, Qing was a little excited.

If his mug were even ordinary, maybe she could understand it—but after making a spectacle of his face in the entrance exam, what kind of confidence did he have to lie there so brazenly?

She’d heard he’d been running his mouth the whole time in the dining hall too, saying the food was trash. The Righteous-Proper Martial Academy had ears everywhere, and the people who prepared those meals were all Martial Alliance staff.

Just how could he be that shamelessly bold?

Of course, she had heard Sima Chunbong’s speculation, but still—there had to be some scheme behind it. He was clearly acting to deliberately cause offense; there was no way he was doing this thoughtlessly.

So she might as well take this chance to pry open his insides a little.

“Cadet Mandarlo, do you also lie around like that in front of the elders’ sleeping chambers at your family home?”

“Tch. I do.”

“And so why, then, in front of the elders of this academy, gathered all—khm.”

His answer was so brazenly confident that she misheard for a second.

She had been about to run the logic of, So you don’t even do that at home; why are you doing it out here, but—

Hm. She’d taken one right on the chin.

“Did you just say you do lie there?”

“The old folks said their precious eldest grandson looked good lying around comfortably, and ended up laying out a spot for me.”

Sure, if we’re talking a seven- or ten-year-old brat, maybe.

But for a fully-grown young man to do that? That was the sort of behavior you took a club to right away.

If an elder comes in, you stand up first.

If you’re lying around right in front of them?

Even back in Qing’s homeland, people would be questioning whether you’d received any home training at all, never mind here in the Central Plains, where it was even stricter.

Qing’s eyes narrowed.

She was gauging whether this bastard was just flapping his mouth and bullshitting because he didn’t want to lose a war of words—

—or whether he really was some precious little jewel of a child who’d grown up spoiled rotten at home, coddled as more precious than gold and allowed to do whatever he wanted until all manners fell clean off.

“As the sages say, not knowing is no shame, so I will not punish you for that. But now I am telling you. What you did was against basic etiquette, so from now on, if you wish to rest, you will do so in your dormitory or your dormitory courtyard. Now that you know, if the same behavior reaches this instructor’s ear again, be prepared.”

“Tch. Hah, even lowborn dogs have homes, I see, given you’re banning even trivial things in this way. Not like you rabble can tell who’s precious anyway, but if that’s how you want to think of it.”

You had to admit, it was a talent to say “I understand” in a way that pissed people off that much.

Mandarlo hooked up just one corner of his pretty mouth into a nasty grin and began to turn away.

Began to.

“Cadet Mandarlo. Where do you think you’re going?”

“I said I understood, didn’t I?”

“I will take into account that you did not know. However.”

Behind the veil, Qing’s smile turned vicious.

“I clearly stated that in Sword Hall, mutual etiquette must be upheld. Is this instructor your buddy? I do not recall granting permission to speak to me from above.”

“Huh?”

“Come here and lie flat.”

Mandarlo’s face drained white.

It was such a dramatic change you could practically hear the blood rushing out of it.

“W-wait. You can’t do this.”

“And why not?”

“B-because. Right! Just who do you think I am, that you dare talk about hitting me!?”

“Hm. How amusing. And who are you, Cadet?”

“I—I am. The—! That, I cannot tell you!”

Do you know who I am?

Who are you?

Not telling.

A full circus act in three quick beats.

“In that case, this instructor will continue not knowing. According to your own words, if I knew your identity I wouldn’t be able to hit you, so if I don’t know, I can hit you just fine. Cadet Mandarlo, present yourself.”

And Qing SWISH-SWISHed the Belly Dagger.

Qing was a monster of brute strength that would make even a mythical strongman bow his head to the Heavenly Flower Sword. A living, breathing freak of power.

The sound of the Belly Dagger, loaded with that overwhelming strength, cutting through the air right in front of your eyes—yet seeming to pass right by your ear—could only dig into your nerves as pure fear.

“Cadet. Any last words?”

“W-wait! You can’t do this!”

“And why is that?”

“B-because! I’ve never been hit before! Not even my father has ever laid a hand on me!”

“Hm. Hmmmm. Hmmm.”

Qing raised that seductive nasal hum.

That meant she was thinking.

Mandarlo’s eyes shook—

“Very well. If your honored father has never struck you either, then—”

Hoooh—Mandarlo let out a breath of relief.

Too early for relief.

“—this will be your first experience. It is an honor to deliver a cadet’s very first switch.”

“Wait! Just wait—”

“Instructors, bring him.”

At that, three assistants plus one more person pounced. Oh, Sword Jade Girl wasn’t even an assistant yet, but she moved crisply and read the room well—mm, talent, talent.

And so Mandarlo, his four limbs seized, was dragged over to Qing upside down.

The mood suddenly went full quartering punishment.

“L-let go of me!”

“You will stay still. If it glances off, I can’t vouch for your spine. You’ll end up crippled.”

“W-wait! I’ll talk! I am—”

“Didn’t ask.”

BOOOONG!! PAAAK!!

In that instant, every cadet’s expression relaxed.

The sound of a blockage blowing clean open.

He had been amazingly punchable.

“GYAAAAAH!!!”

A scream of pure, undiluted agony rang out.

The even more terrifying part was that the four assistants still hadn’t let go of his limbs.

Once you’ve been hit, rubbing the affected area is basic instinctive detoxification in humans.

Instead, with all four limbs still held aloft, Mandarlo just quivered violently in midair, jerking like a fish on a spear.

“Hkk, hkk-heuk. Haah, huh. Hkk, khk.”

“Cadet Mandarlo, are you crying?”

“N-no, shit, who’d cry—hkk.”

“And yet you still don’t seem to have your manners in order. Still not clear in the head?”

“N-no, ma’am......”

When Qing flicked her bamboo hat with a CHAK, the assistants finally let go of his arms and legs.

Mandarlo spilled straight down to the floor, smashed his face into it—and then showed no intention whatsoever of getting up.

What, is he dead? Judging by the way his shoulders were shaking, he didn’t seem dead...

In fact, Qing more or less knew who Mandarlo was.

Strictly speaking it was only Sima Chunbong’s conjecture and not confirmed, but he was probably an infiltrator sent from the imperial palace.

The refinement leaking off him made it clear he wasn’t the child of some ordinary rich house; and if he were from a great martial family, there’s no way they wouldn’t recognize him.

In the second exam, he’d even tossed away a treasured sword—broken or not—like it was nothing. If that kind of wealth belonged to a martial house, it would’ve already been common knowledge, so the only real possibilities were non-martial society: the upper merchant class or the government.

But then in the third exam, he’d been caught using the martial arts of Wudang—however clumsily, that Flying-Cloud Stamping-Shadow ascension lightness skill, or whatever it was.

The martial arts of the Nine Sects and the Five Great Houses had a painful history: back when the orthodox faction had been the imperial palace’s lapdogs, they’d handed them over.

So if he was from the government, and from a very rarefied home at that, suddenly busting out a Wudang secret art could also be explained.

Did they send someone way too half-baked?

“Honestly, Heavenly Flower Sword.”

Sima Chunbong had tapped her own head with her fingertips—telling Qing to use hers.

That had led to Qing tackling and pinning her, followed by a rib-destroying side-hold throw, but in any case—

“Huff, huff, haah, hoo... in short... haah... they won’t bother trying too hard to hide it. It’s their way of saying he’s an imperial envoys’ special agent and should be treated accordingly.”

So apparently they weren’t planning to hide it much at all.

The subtext was:

He’s a spy, but anyway, I’m sending him, so keep him. Don’t want to? Oh? Treason? Plotting rebellion?

No matter how strong the current martial world was, it wasn’t in a position to openly defy the imperial family. So what could they do? They had to pass him.

It was like sending a spy with a sign around his neck saying spy—you didn’t know whether to call it brazen or petty.

What was certain was the arrogance of the imperial house.

I sent him. You dare refuse?—that sentiment was baked right in.

There was one piece of good news, though: not trying to hide it and publicly announcing it were two completely different actions.

Even in the imperial palace, this wasn’t something they could proudly proclaim to the world, and if it got out that a high official’s child from the government side was studying at the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy, that would, in its own way, greatly embarrass the imperial house.

Sending him to the martial world instead of teaching him themselves was, in itself, tantamount to admitting the martial world’s superiority.

So they couldn’t say it outright, but the vibe would be: We won’t spell it out, but use your judgment.

Anyway.

So Qing had come to a conclusion of her own.

She didn’t know his identity as an imperial spy, so—why not just treat him like any other cadet?

“Cadet Mandarlo. Stand up.”

Sniff.

“Cadet, are you crying right now?”

“I said I’m not... sir......”

One hit and now Mandarlo, sullen as he was, had started using polite speech.

Qing had expected him to put up more of a fight; getting there in a single hit felt a bit anticlimactic.

As expected, strength creates manners!

And she felt strong. Stronger than anyone! Stronger than ever!

When else was he going to get hit again by the greatest power of martial arts, the force that twists reality itself—a club imbued with ideology?

The maximum pain you can inflict without damaging the body! (With additional male-only bonus damage.)

It was a life-valuing, fusion-powered humanitarian ideology.

Still, staring at that back, lying prone with his face buried in the dirt and his shoulders trembling faintly, she did feel juuuust a bit sorry.

Maybe she’d gone a little hard. He was still a kid.

Didn’t he say he was eighteen this year?

He wouldn’t bother lying about his age, so let’s see—in her homeland’s terms, that’d be second year of high school? Mm. Then yeah, that did make him a kid......

“Cadet Mandarlo. Stand up.”

Qing helped him up herself, brushing the dirt from his clothes with a few pats. Then she slipped a quiet word of comfort into his ear.

Try acting up again. You’re dead. For real.

“HIC.”

Mandarlo jerked in surprise and hiccupped.

Well, not all kids are the same.

If you’re awkwardly enthusiastic, shy, or pitiful, you get treated like a kid.

But some punk shambling around like a delinquent? That’s not a kid, that’s a juvenile offender—no, why do we even need the concept of juvenile offenders? He’s just a pre–Demon King with yellow sprouts already showing.

Still, fortunately, he was beneath her.

Just as dough gets chewier the more you knead it, people get gradually more decent the more you pound them. Mm, hand-pulled... now I want hand-pulled noodles. No—dumpling soup.

Slurp. Qing hastily swallowed the drool that had started flowing on automatic, like Mr. Pamo’s dog.

For Mandarlo, it was an even more terrifying moment.

Now she’s even swallowing drool at the thought of beating people. This isn’t a butcher, this is a human butcher.

The old folks of his clan had nagged him so much, saying lowborn butchers were the kind who even ate humans and he should be careful around them.

Everyone had been delighted when the hateful bastard got smacked, but once he actually had been smacked and came trudging back with bloodshot eyes and covered in dirt, he must have looked a bit pitiful.

Squad captain Yang Chil gave his back a few pats.

“Sss...” Mandarlo shrugged him off, but there was no real strength in it.

Yang Chil gave a wry smile, then patted his back again, slow and steady, as if to say it was all right, offering quiet comfort.

They really had picked the right squad captain.

But.

Well. Was that really the person who needed comforting right now?

Qing turned her gaze to Moyong Juhee, Namgung Sinjae, and Changbin.

For some reason, the looks coming back at her carried a mysterious heat—or perhaps a certain strain of wicked madness.

Because before they got into the real sparring classes, they were scheduled to undergo some “simple” physical conditioning.