Chapter 751: Bound for Beijing (4)

The claim that he had elixirs wasn’t a lie, apparently; Wi Baseon reached into the long sleeves characteristic of eunuchs and drew out a small wooden case.

“This is a Sun-Reviving Pill.”

He gazed down at it with a deeply reluctant look, and the hand he slowly extended toward her trembled.

Just from his reaction, there was no question it was a precious elixir.

Except, as he extended it, he half-drew it back, and as he drew it back, he half-extended it again; the wooden case somehow never actually got any closer.

What is this? An illusion of being offered something?

His arm was outstretched, but the distance stubbornly refused to shrink.

But if the other party won’t come to you, you can always just go to them.

“Truly, thank you. I don’t know how I could ever repay this kindness...”

Qing reached out and grabbed the top of the wooden case.

And Wi Baseon clamped down hard on the bottom.

The tug-of-war between the one trying to take and the one unwilling to give made the blood drain from both their hands.

“Oh dear, even in such poor health, you’re very strong.”

“Hehe, I get told I’m very strong quite a lot. Thank you.”

“That... isn’t... a compliment... I mean, what is this strength, when you’re acting like a patient who’s definitely going to die tomorrow...”

“Aah, my internal injuries—cough, cough.”

Even then, the wooden case trembled midair.

Whatever wood it was made from, it was sturdy enough to withstand the crushing grip of two martial artists, so even if the contents weren’t on that level, the case itself was pretty high-end.

“At this point, acting sick... won’t...”

“As the Master said, ‘If meaning is conveyed, that is enough’—er, anyway, since Elder Screen, or Brush, um, has already taken my pulse, what would be the point of putting on more of a show?”

The line If meaning is conveyed, that is enough was a saying from the Analects, in the “Duke Ling of Wei” chapter: words only need to get the meaning across; there’s no need to exaggerate or dress them up.

In other words: You’ve already confirmed I’m sick, so what’s the point of acting even sicker? You checked my pulse yourself.

A vein bulged on Wi Baseon’s forehead.

He prided himself on his martial attainment, and now, as he clenched his teeth and tightened his grip, his voice came out harsh in a way that didn’t suit a eunuch at all.

The woman claiming to be ill was matching him with brutish strength and yet her expression didn’t change, not a flicker, and not a syllable of her speech slurred—so what on earth was this strength?

On top of that, for someone with such stupid brute strength, she was quoting the classics.

And then for someone quoting the classics so smoothly not to be able to remember “Chief Brush-and-Seal Eunuch” properly and call him “Elder Screen something”—what was that supposed to be?

The eyes of the one trying to snatch (receive) and of the one refusing to give (bestow) met, and sparks flew.

Wi Baseon, against his will, felt his mood lift again.

Princess Yeonsul had always had a tremendous appetite, yet by imperial order she had been served small portions.

The decree had been that a girl who was already too big must not be allowed to grow any bigger.

So she was always whining about being hungry, and the eunuchs constantly slipped her snacks.

If you held one out and, halfway through, she latched on, she would strain just like this to wrest it away.

And if you let go at just the right moment—

Qing tumbled backward.

Hey, maybe say something before you let go.

Anyway, the elixir was hers now.

Lying on her side on the floor, Qing quietly tucked the wooden case into her breast.

Then she stayed lying there and tapped her forehead.

“Oh no, I’m so dizzy. I can’t get up.”

Anyone watching would ask what the hell she thought she was doing, and what kind of guts it took to be this ill-mannered in front of a high official.

But Qing’s inborn sense, her sly instinct for reading older people, testing their boundaries, and riding the line—

The instinct of a legendary old-people-slayer—told her this was exactly the time she could get away with rolling around and being a brat.

Wi Baseon’s gaze rested on Qing, but what he was really looking at was some past day, some memory.

Even lying there wriggling on the floor, she would somehow get the snack into her mouth—what kind of princess behaved like that, honestly.

But then his eyes cooled.

Because Princess Yeonsul was alive and well.

If she were dead, looking back on things like this might have ripened into a gentle, wistful sorrow, but the princess was right there, a very real existence.

She’d simply changed as a person.

From an adorable, incorrigible little menace no one could hate, into a demanding, difficult mistress you had to tiptoe around; from a tomboy you’d never believe was a princess, into a proper, dignified imperial lady finally settling into her rightful place. You could say a change that should have happened had simply come late.

You could see someone who resembled the dead, trace their shadow, and long for them.

But with someone who’s still alive, all you can do is, Our princess used to be so cute back then, and let it end as a moment of nostalgia.

That was only natural.

To look at Qing and think, The Princess Yeonsul in the imperial palace is a fake, and this woman must be the real one. Some conspiracy must have led to this...?

That wasn’t “good instincts,” that was edging into senility, into delusional mental illness.

The moment Wi Baseon’s gaze shifted, Qing pushed herself up as if nothing had happened and sat properly.

What’s with this old man, anyway; his mood keeps changing.

Some kind of bipolar thing?

Well, honestly, that tracks. Palace eunuch, you know. Castrated. Hormones, menopause, something like that.

While she was thinking that, Wi Baseon suddenly curved his lips into a strangely nasty smile, his eyes flashing with a hint of killing intent.

“Oh dear, Heavenly Flower Sword. No matter how serious the condition, if you’re flopping around like that with a woman’s body, your state must be quite poor indeed. I’ll stand guard for you, so why don’t you take the elixir at once?”

Taking an elixir was one of the moments when a martial artist was at their most vulnerable.

“Ah. Shall I?”

Qing popped the lid off the wooden case and flicked the elixir straight into her mouth.

Then she sat cross-legged, folded her hands neatly, closed her eyes tight, and drew in a long, deep breath.

Oh—hot, no, blazing. Wow, that’s hot.

The instant the elixir went down, a thousand internal fires erupted in her gut.

No liquor in the world could match this heat; damn, this is amazing, I should really stockpile these if I can.

Well, of course; it was an elixir with an extremely yang nature.

Molten-lava-like internal energy exploded outward and spread through all her meridians.

You’re not supposed to just gulp down something that far tilted to one extreme.

They’re meant to be used when the balance of yang and yin has been broken and you need to urgently replenish one side, or they’re created as pairs with a matching extreme-yin elixir to be taken together, using the principle of mutual generation.

But Qing was fine.

She had plenty of internal cultivation manuals that used yang energy; she just had to dump it all into those.

Even leaving aside the art she’d pushed to the twelfth and ultimate stage, there was still plenty of room left in Dragon-Throne Prajñā Tiger-Heart Art, All-Phenomena-as-One Divine Art, and Blood-Demon King Divine Art, all of which had a yang nature.

And also, this was a really good elixir...

Its medicinal power was quite rich; like most herbs with yang properties, it was an all-around tonic that replenished vitality and boosted stamina.

Wi Baseon blinked slowly.

What kind of woman has nerves like this.

It was the mean little spite of an old eunuch.

Castrated men were always short on yang qi, and any elixir with that kind of extreme yang nature was something that would make every eunuch drool.

He’d obtained the elixir from the Medical Office on the grounds that he might need it, and when you were at the level of Chief Brush-and-Seal Eunuch, you didn’t exactly struggle to “need” something and quietly keep it for yourself.

He’d already counted it as his in his heart, and now that he’d handed it over, he’d let a bit of killing intent seep out and spitefully insisted she take it right here and now.

And yet what the hell was this woman relying on, to just snap it up and swallow it like that?

Her internal injuries were already severe; if things went bad, one clean blow could kill her.

Was it that her injuries were so bad she figured she’d die anyway if she didn’t get them under control, so she might as well pop the elixir and see what happened?

Or was she certain that, since His Majesty had summoned her, no one would dare lay hands on her?

Or maybe, because he’d briefly gotten lost in old memories, she’d decided he was harmless.

Either her guts were enormous, or she was devious.

Or hopelessly naive.

Wi Baseon shook his head.

*****

In the Central Plains, no matter how great a master you are, you don’t set out along mountain paths at night in pouring rain.

No matter how good your night vision is, in pitch-black darkness you simply can’t see, and when the rain is coming down in sheets, you can’t even rely on a lamp. You just sleep quietly and start at dawn.

Last night, before leaving for Beijing, she’d gotten together with her friends and had a long-overdue gossip session.

Her muscles were still throbbing with that solid post-workout ache, but Jayeo had done her duty as mattress (complete with pillow).

And so morning came.

Qing went to the guest hall.

And then—

Huh. This old guy? Seriously?

Is he really holding a grudge over me snatching the elixir?

“Is something wrong?”

“Ah... how could I possibly get into the palanquin before you, Elder? I’m fine, so...”

“Not at all. With your internal injuries in such poor shape, how could we be so cruel as to make a patient walk a mountain path? Don’t refuse; please, sit.”

Qing looked at the golden palanquin with a sour expression.

Gold wasn’t strong enough a metal to bear a person’s weight, so of course it was just gold plating.

But, seriously, what was this sparkling, glittering, blinding thing? It practically threw off beams of light.

No wonder the Academy warriors had lost their wits.

Even under dark, rain-heavy clouds, this golden palanquin had gleamed bright and clear.

If anyone ever saw her riding in such a thing even once, she’d be saddled for life with some punishment nickname like Golden Palanquin Guy or Pure-Gold Palanquin Hero.

In other words, it was unbelievably tacky.

The full impression of some nouveau riche idiot—tasteless, no sense of aesthetics—just awful.

And on top of that, it was raining again today.

SWAAAAASH—

Absolutely pouring.

“Uh... does this not have some kind of roof? Something you can attach or assemble...”

“It is a radiant Golden Palanquin crafted so that all the people may look up and gaze upon it. If we covered the top, it would cast a shadow; if the gold doesn’t outshine the person, there’s no point in using such an expensive metal.”

In other words, it had been built with the express purpose of drawing every eye, so there was nothing on it to block the view.

What can you do. Qing was just about to head toward the Golden Palanquin when—

“Heavenly Flower Sword. As I said: this is a Golden Palanquin meant for all the people to gaze up at. If you sit in the place made for a hero dressed like that, what will the people think?”

“Uh, it’s pouring like this, though?”

Qing asked awkwardly.

“Dressed like that” meant her Central Plains rain-gear, the straw raincoat.

So she was supposed to wear no raincoat and sit in a roofless palanquin, in this rain?

And it wasn’t just “rain,” either.

These were big, heavy drops, the kind that would sting on impact, the kind of rain where if you took a bath in it you’d go, Wow, this water pressure is amazing!

Qing tried to object, at least a little.

“With my condition so poor, even in summer it can’t be good for me to be drenched in cold rain. If my body were to be harmed, I’d be bringing shame on His Majesty’s summons...”

“It’s fine. Here. I’ll hold this over you myself.”

“Wh—you’ll do it personally?”

Wi Baseon opened an umbrella.

Calling it an “umbrella” was generous; it was the same massive contraption a servant had been holding over him while he read the decree yesterday, the sort of giant thing you’d see stuck in the middle of an outdoor table or on a beach in Qing’s homeland.

Qing felt even more uncomfortable.

The golden palanquin was a matter of her own dignity, her own face.

This, though—this felt like an issue of respecting the elderly, of elder abuse.

Granted, he didn’t seem like he was at a low cultivation level, but still.

Wi Baseon gave her a broad smile.

Anyone could see it was a manufactured expression—a very, very grudging smile.

Qing climbed into the palanquin, wearing the expression of someone chewing on a brick.

To make it worse, because it was “gold,” it was hard.

As they set out, the Sword Hall instructors were lined up on both sides even in this rain.

“Instructor! Have a safe trip!”

“Instructor! We’ll be waiting for you!”

“Oh, Instructor! My Instructor!”

Who was that last idiot, using lines better suited to climbing up on a desk—

You little dog... oh, it’s you. I mean, I am your instructor, but still.

Even as the rain came down, at the heat of the sendoff Qing quietly turned her head away.

Everything about this was great—except that she was sitting in a gaudy, gold-plated, country-bumpkin palanquin, and she just could not bring herself to show her face.

Who on earth designed this thing?

Was it made specifically to embarrass people?

Anyway, like this—

The journey to Beijing began.