Chapter 723: When Going Out, Maintain Your Dignity (17)

There’s a saying where Qing comes from:

“When he’s not in the room, you can even curse the king.”

But in the Central Plains, people don’t curse the Son of Heaven even when there’s no one else in the room.

Because if you get caught, you die.

What if somebody overhears you and goes, “That bastard’s the one who cursed His Majesty.”?

The verdict would come down after the execution—starting with your immediate family.

Executing the whole family is the baseline. Exterminating three clans—your family plus your close relations—is about average. If the cursing got a little too spicy, you get to stand there and watch nine clans get their heads lopped off—your in-laws, in-laws’ cousins, everyone.

And your own execution would be the last one.

Qing hadn’t been born in the Central Plains, so she couldn’t feel this terror in her blood—the greatest taboo running in the veins of a people, carved out of centuries of lived experience and things witnessed.

She could, however, roughly guess.

This fear the people of the Central Plains carried would keep right on going, into the future, on that home soil of the Central Plains itself, as a “current” condition.

The ruler of the Central Plains had always been the absolute power who owned both the lives and the property of the common folk, a literal, living divine being.

So Qing’s heart dropped into her stomach.

When she’d been a lone drifter in the past, she could have declared without blinking, “Son of Heaven, whatever. If those in power don’t act like people, they’re not people, they’re beasts, so you beat them to death.”

But now, she had put down roots at Divine Lady’s Gate.

Strictly speaking she hadn’t formally been recorded in the rolls, but she was, in effect, an honorary disciple.

As for government troops—if a top expert took the field, what was a few hundred or a few thousand massacred soldiers?

As long as you didn’t get sucked into their attrition tactics and collapse from exhaustion, if you ran and struck and ambushed cleverly, you could spend decades killing government troops and rack up tens of thousands of casualties.

Of course, back when the overall level of martial skill was low, that would have been impossible.

Even in the days when a Harmony-level expert could call himself the greatest under heaven, the government forces weren’t much different from now—no, back then they were stronger, with the Mongol barbarians ruling the Central Plains and their armies on horseback. (Which was exactly why everyone rose up and flipped the dynasty over.)

But the level of the experts kept climbing.

Now, when Harmony-realm martial artists existed in every province by the handful, and ever since that peerless Heavenly Martial Emperor shook the world with his prowess, the authorities had grown deeply wary of the martial world.

The martial world, however, had always feared the authorities.

No expert is alone in this world.

What about his master, disciples, senior brothers, the whole family of the sect?

The expert might flee with only his own body as collateral, but artillery would set his sect ablaze; his disciples would be branded traitors, and their entire families would be wiped out.

There was no way a handful of superhuman fighters could protect all of them.

So Qing’s heart had to lurch.

Wait. What the hell did he just say?

Imperial command sword?

I broke a sword the Son of Heaven personally bestowed?

And I didn’t just break it.

I’d taunted it as a piece of cheap junk, which was basically the same as saying the Son of Heaven’s grace was cheap junk.

Denial.

No. No way. That’s impossible.

How could someone just fling away a precious treasured sword personally bestowed by the Son of Heaven?

And I’m supposed to believe some assassin is swinging around an imperial Heavenly Grace blade?

What kind of assassin runs around doing hits with a general’s sword?

Anger.

This bastard thinks he’s fooling who, exactly.

I am not buying this. Absolutely not.

He can’t catch me with lightness skill, so now he’s trying psychological warfare, is that it? Even if you’re an assassin, just some thug with martial arts, you dare drag the imperial palace into this?

I am not giving this little shit a clean death.

On top of assassin charges I’m adding “insulting my intelligence.” I’ll fillet his flesh sliver by sliver and make him chew it. I’ll make him eat everything but his molars. No, he can eat those too. If he doesn’t have teeth, he can chew with his gums or swallow it raw.

Bargaining.

All right, fine. Worst case, I say I didn’t know. Clearly it’s the idiot who threw the imperial sword who’s at fault. I just say the administrative system was a mess so I couldn’t recognize it, right?

I mean, I have Her Majesty the Empress’s jade tablet, don’t I?

Didn’t I introduce myself as a princess once? In that case it’s not treason, just filial impiety, right?

And then Qing’s eyes flashed.

Hm? Wait.

I’m a princess? Me? Me?

I’m not Ximen Qing right now, am I?

Right now I’m the great demonic head of the age, the Minor Water Witch.

Five stages of acceptance, achieved dramatic settlement at stage three!

Qing’s expression flipped.

She flung both arms up high, and on the backs of her hands swelled that twisted mass of condensed qi, the warped demonic hand, which she displayed for all to see.

“This is Demonic Little-Water Hand! Proof that I have reached! The Demonic Realm! Because I! Am! The Minor Water Witch! That very! Minor! Water Witch!”

The Minor Water Witch suddenly launched into an overblown self-introduction, and even in the middle of all this chaos, people’s gazes turned to her again, as if there were one more show to watch.

But only for a moment.

“Keheh, Heavenly Grace? A sword bestowed by the Son of Heaven? Ha! The Son of Heaven must be a real pauper, handing out this kind of sword as a gracious favor! A bone you toss to a stray mutt in the street would be more gracious than this!”

“Y-you, you bitch! How dare you!”

“Daring? What’s truly pitiful is a Son of Heaven who has to entrust a sword to a hack like this! He’s using some idiot who can’t even catch one Minor Water Witch as his subordinate!”

“Are you out of your mind!”

“Damn right I’m crazy! People of the town! Look over here! This is the imperial command sword His Majesty bestowed! Put a little pressure on it and it snaps right in two—hell, even a whittled stick would be sturdier than this! Either the Son of Heaven is broke and could only afford cheap junk, or—ah! This must be an empty food box! A deep message from His Majesty: Go out, wave this around, break it in use and then die as a traitor!”

“Sh-shut up!”

Youngban’s face had gone corpse-pale as he shouted.

Words were coming out that went beyond imagination, words he had never even conceived of hearing in his life.

“Now! Behold again! This is Demonic Little-Water Hand!”

The twisted hand of condensed qi clenched into a fist, then slid its thumb up between the index and middle finger, the sharp nail jutting out.

In truth, this was a very old gesture, used not only where Qing came from but in half the world, including the Central Plains—a very ancient sign.

“And this is also Demonic Little-Water Hand! What does the Son of Heaven ever do, and what has he ever done for us! The officials rampage like thugs! They suck the very blood of the common folk to fill their own bellies! Blood-tears flow all over the land, and what does that bastard Son of Heaven do!”

Commoners who had been timidly poking their heads out where the assassins had withdrawn, trying to sneak a look, immediately twisted away.

All over, people were shoving themselves through any door they saw, barging into random houses—because they realized that what they were hearing was so dangerous that merely listening to it put their lives at risk.

They said the Minor Water Witch was a deranged demonic head, and what do you know, she really was insane.

I didn’t see anything. I didn’t hear anything.

Although, well.

Crazy talk or not... she wasn’t wrong.

The commoners agreed with her, silently, only in their hearts.

“Here’s a song from the Minor Water Witch! ‘Son of Heaven, you fucking bastard! Son of Heaven, you dog-shit bastard!’ I knew that punk was rotten from the moment he started fiddling and scheming everywhere! In an age where people say the officials are scarier than tigers, what kind of Son of Heaven stuffs his face and screws around in luxury! How does he have any right to the title! May heaven’s judgment fall and grant him a long, long life of chronic illness! Long live! Long live! Long long live!”

“Shut up! Please! Just stop!”

“The Minor Water Witch can’t hear you! The Minor Water Witch is cursing the Son of Heaven! Son of Heaven’s a dog-bastard! Only those who agree, follow behind me!”

Since calling the Son of Heaven a dog-bastard technically meant, by bloodline, that she was insulting herself, too, you could say Qing was hitting herself—but she was just letting whatever words formed in her mouth spill straight out, so no self-reflection was involved.

Youngban was learning, in vivid detail, exactly what it meant to “go insane” and “lose your mind.”

“Y-you bitch, Heavenly Flower Sword! How dare you, Heavenly Flower Sworrrd!!”

Youngban started chanting Heavenly Flower Sword’s title.

Perhaps some desperate scrap of thought had kicked in under crisis; his plan was to loudly call the Heavenly Flower Sword by name in front of the “Minor Water Witch” pretending to be her.

“Heavenly Flower Sword!? That’s right! I’m the Heavenly Flower Sword! I’m the world’s greatest beauty, the Minor Water Witch Heavenly Flower Sword! Fine! From now on, I’ll be Heavenly Flower Sword! I’ll stand above Heaven and Flowers both! I’m Heavenly Flower Sword! No, Heavenly Flower Fist—wait, it’s not a fist art either! I’m Heavenly Flower Hand!”

“What in the—”

This was the price of underestimating Qing’s mouth.

Now the “Minor Water Witch” had evolved into a Minor Water Witch claiming to be the Heavenly Flower Sword herself, and Youngban’s tongue locked in his throat instead.

And Qing did not miss that perfect moment—this instant when his mouth jammed and his mind went blank.

“Fine, I’ll give your imperial sword back! Here, catch!”

Qing hurled the hilt and blade fragments, one from each hand, high up into the air.

Youngban panicked and slammed a foot into the ground—THUD!—launching himself up, and at that exact instant, Qing’s True-Step Footwork pounded the earth in rapid succession—THUD!!—and she spun on her heel and bolted in the exact opposite direction.

Youngban snatched desperately at the air and, thankfully, managed to catch both parts of the command sword, hilt and blade—only then did he notice Qing’s figure streaking away below him, behind his back.

Why the hell would she run back that way?

Why? That’s where his men would be in pursuit—

In that instant, Youngban’s face went ashen all over again.

If the Heavenly Flower Sword wasn’t merely a peak master but a demonic head—one who had mastered some of the most vicious demonic arts under heaven—could his subordinates withstand her?

But his body was already airborne, and he hadn’t learned any lightness art capable of changing direction mid-leap once full momentum was on.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t learn it. He’d simply chosen not to, and now his regret was unbearable.

When he entered the Imperial Grace Martial Corps, the lightness skill he had chosen hadn’t been the Heaven-Grace Cloud-Bearing Body that allowed for midair direction changes, but the one that prioritized only one thing: speed. Nothing but speed.

Meanwhile, PEE-DEEP, DEEP DEEP—an oddly jaunty whistle pattern rang out. The strange signal whistle made you feel like you ought to be chanting some grand four-syllable country name along with it.

Youngban’s expression grew even more frantic.

That bitch is after my men!

Qing blew the signal whistle, luring in the leftover assassins as she cranked her brain hard.

She hadn’t thought of it in the sudden appearance of the command sword, but now that she’d put the Minor Water Witch’s mask back on, she’d regained her calm.

Why would some rando assassin suddenly go, “Aaagh, the treasured sword His Majesty bestowed!” and start babbling to trick her?

No, he’d thrown the command sword in a blind rage, and when it left his hand he’d either snapped back to his senses or lost them {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} completely and shouted without thinking.

When you got down to it, this was all that bastard’s fault.

Sure, she’d called it cheap and snapped it—but from the standpoint of the one applying force, even the Old Man’s own masterpiece Moonlight Sword (Number Ten) hadn’t been this tough and elastic.

It really was a blade worthy of being called a famous sword among famous swords, a treasure among treasures, a masterpiece in its own right.

Clearly, it hadn’t been bestowed for him to just enshrine at home. He was supposed to carry it into real battle and use it, and there was nothing wrong with that.

But why the hell would you throw such a precious sword?

No matter how angry you get, no matter how your eyes roll back—even if people do sometimes lash out with their fists when they see red—still.

You can’t do that.

This was all that bastard’s fault.

He threw the sword. All she’d done was catch it.

Disabling the enemy’s weapon was a matter of course in warfare, so all she’d done was break the weapon.

If that bastard hadn’t kicked up this kind of chaos to play assassin, she wouldn’t have had any reason to go this far—

Then, suddenly.

This kind of chaos.

Qing’s eyes narrowed.

The streets full of assassins suddenly made sense; with the palace’s resources, mobilizing an assassin force of this size was perfectly plausible.

Given how desperately they’d been throwing themselves at the kill, these assassins might even know a thing or two about who their client was.

But then why was the palace after the dog-bone brat?

Sure, he was a bit yellow-sprouting, no, very yellow-sprouting, almost rotten to the core—but still, was the imperial palace really raising this kind of hell just to kill one insolent little eighteen-year-old punk?

Why? Just some typical Administrative Secretariat palace intrigue?

But in that case, the Son of Heaven could end it with one pointed finger and a cry of “treason”—why send subordinates to play assassin just to kill the son?

Maybe the emperor wasn’t the one at the center of this.

Maybe the Administrative Commissioner knew his son was in danger, which is why he’d shoved the boy into the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy? Hm. Plausible?

Either way, there was no point thinking it over now.

What good were solo guesses?

Stuff like this was for smart people—brains like Seol’s could maybe piece it together. Someone like her... well, even if she wasn’t as reliable as Seol, maybe Chunbong or Jegal could.

What she had to do came first.

Right now, what Qing needed to do was not untangle the dog-bone brat and the palace conspiracy tied to him.

The deed was done already. She had to move to protect herself, her friends, and their Academy family.

And at times like this, the path was clear.

She had to wipe them all out.

Kill and erase.

This was not the time to just run and buy time.

The assassins attacking in the marketplace were probably just mercenaries taking coin, but the dozen or so running along the rooftops—those guys were definitely something of the palace. Palace troops? Palace guards? Palace assassins? Whatever they were, they were absolutely something of the palace.

And the dead do not talk, so she had to make sure not a single one of them survived.

Not kill—erase.

Burn the bodies or bury them, whatever it took so their identities could never be confirmed. Then even if some aftershock rolled in later, the powers-that-be could say, “That never happened. We know nothing of it,” and wash their hands of it.

She had to remove the evidence itself from the face of the earth.

Qing’s eyes took on a cold, icy gleam.