Chapter 950: I Want to Watch (4)

Qing had assumed he wouldn’t hand over the money obediently, so at worst she figured he’d drag it out a bit and come out late.

Since he’s going to pay anyway, she’d thought, won’t he try to stall just to sour my mood for no reason?

But he’d outright bolted?

Right in front of this many people?

...Wow. This was a straight-up, no-brakes bastard.

Qing reflected on how careless she’d been.

How could a brat this petty and low exist—though, of course, the world was wide, and bastards like this were practically everywhere.

Back home, there’d been a guy who, when you told him to pay his debt, went out of his way to exchange it into coins just to make you suffer. That was what petty bastards were like by nature.

But if we were ranking pettiness, Qing herself had the talent to contend for number one under heaven.

If he thought she’d give up and withdraw obediently just because he’d gone to ground, that would be a massive misunderstanding—massive arrogance.

Qing turned around.

It was right when the crowd—each person who’d waited with her for over half a shichen—was starting to think: We came because they said there’d be something to watch, but she’s just been standing in front of this sect the whole time without moving. I’m bored to death. Should I go home or not?

Since acting openly bored while waiting looked bad, Qing had had no choice but to stand there like a statue too.

Either way, the moment Qing reacted, countless eyes in the crowd converged on her.

“Fellow comrades of the martial world.”

Even with her huge volume, it wasn’t a harsh shout. Paired with a naturally pleasant voice, it landed cleanly in the ear.

“Some of you may have already heard what happened, but the reason I came here was to receive an apology and compensation from Pyeong Goun—an inner disciple of the Azure Dragon Gate, and the Azure Dragon Gate sect leader’s son.”

Hadn’t someone once said that a war of words was something you did to piss the other person off?

But if that was all it was, that was only intermediate skill.

If you tried to persuade the other person with a war of words, that was a beginner’s method.

And the true purpose of a master at a war of words—wasn’t to persuade the opponent, and wasn’t to piss the opponent off.

A master’s method, a master’s war of words, was something done so that other people could hear it.

“Everyone, did you know that even poverty can be stolen?”

Back in Qing’s homeland, there was a book called Stolen Poverty.

A poor woman who worked in a factory fell in love with a poor young man—and the way she expressed that love was truly something else.

‘Let’s live together. We can save on briquette money, too.’

But, alas—this poor young man was actually the son of a rich family, and he was in the middle of a penniless “poverty experience,” under his parents’ orders, because you only learn money’s value after you’ve suffered without it.

And so, later, when he revealed his true identity, he said—

‘Ah, but is it really okay to drag in just any man and sleep around just because you want to save on briquette money? Don’t live so loosely. Come be a maid at my house, at least. Don’t live in a slum like this.’

He even used the word “slum.”

Did “let’s live together to save briquette money” really mean “let’s literally save briquette money”?

But the young man—who’d never truly been poor to begin with, whose very status was different—couldn’t understand that. He thought she was a loose woman who dragged men in and clung to them just to raise body heat and save on briquettes.

And the woman fell into real despair.

Even in poverty, she’d met someone she loved, and they’d lived happily, huddled together, even with nothing. A time when it was a poverty you could be happy in, even without anything.

But after the man left, all that remained was vicious humiliation—and the rented room she used to wait for after work had become a dingy slum.

And so the woman had her poverty stolen.

In front of the rich turning even poverty into their plaything, the truly poor could only look back at themselves as filthy paupers and feel miserable.

What was the lesson of that novel?

Those vicious rich bastards even plunder poverty. So then, comrade, you should stand up too—right?

Of course, a “lesson” was only a personal reaction. That kind of implication didn’t matter.

What mattered was that it was useful right now.

“Everyone. What I wish to take back is not some measly price of clothes. In the midst of financial hardship, I wanted that one bastard who mocked and fleeced wanderers who train in silence to truly reflect and repent for what he did.”

Qing began to spin her tale.

Of course, she hadn’t separately heard anything from the wanderers. So rather than a “tale,” it was almost entirely in the realm of pure invention.

There once lived a vile man named Pyeong Goun.

This bastard went out into the martial world and came up with a truly dog-shit idea: Wouldn’t it be fun to torment wanderers? That was the thought he’d had.

Why wanderers?

Because they were easy prey—and his backing was solid, so no matter how much he bullied them, there’d be no consequences.

So he decided, purely for fun, to torment wanderers stuck in hard circumstances. That was the kind of heart he’d taken up.

And then Pyeong Goun, having found easy prey, didn’t he steal some cheap clothes and pretend to be a wanderer from the Mercenary Guild?

The wanderers, not knowing any of that, accepted Pyeong Goun as a comrade and treated him sincerely.

They told him about the state of the martial world as they knew it. They taught him practical fighting methods useful in real combat. They bought him meals, saying, Our youngest should eat a lot, and they truly wished for the young wanderer to succeed greatly one day.

But Pyeong Goun’s heart was different.

Even when they told him about the martial world, he must’ve sneered inside, thinking, These idiots don’t know anything and they’re yapping.

Even when he received their practical fighting methods, he must’ve looked down on them—This is all? I have proper martial arts,—how laughable he must’ve found them.

Even as he accepted their meals, he ground his teeth, thinking, They give me this pig slop and act like they did something.

Then, one day, Pyeong Goun told the wanderers: I’m actually a disciple of the Azure Dragon Gate, and the sect leader’s son. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, so I want to treat you properly, just once.

And didn’t he lead them straight to this place—Huanin’s Number-One Inn, Five-Women Tower in Dangsan?

And then he ordered the most expensive dishes and alcohol until the table was ready to snap—then, once they’d eaten, didn’t he change his tune?

You sword-sellers think you’re worthy of sitting with me? You worm-like trash.

You follow along just because someone says they’ll buy you food—what are you, dogs? Pigs? You stupid bastards.

You’re so low-level it’s hard to even be around you.

You pay for what you ate. And you pay for what I ate, too.

I’m a precious person, so of course you should pay even my share. Isn’t that obvious?

And then, while he was smashing the inn floor and fleeing in a panic—he got caught by me.

Not that I caught him because I intended to. His martial prowess was just that pathetic. And the reason he couldn’t keep mocking them and ran instead—was probably because, in truth, he didn’t even have the skill to beat the wanderers he looked down on so much...

“Huh.” “My god.” “There were rumors, quietly, that he was a thug, but...” “What a piece of shit.”

It was truly malicious fabrication.

There was a saying: making a needle into a club—taking a tiny needle and insisting it’s a huge cudgel—meaning you exaggerate a small matter into something big.

Qing’s invented story was exactly that.

In her story, Pyeong Goun was a bastard among bastards, deliberately fleecing the poor and suffering purely for entertainment.

The crowd grew outraged.

Most people felt their lives were harsh and it was hard just to survive.

So of course they immersed themselves in the story of someone who had something mocking and fleecing those who had nothing—and of course they got angry.

What was more, even among the crowd, the wanderers—actual parties involved—were nodding along.

That made Qing’s stomach twitch, and yet—

Wait, what? Why are you wanderers agreeing? Don’t tell me he was really that kind of bastard? Did I accidentally guess the truth? Did I... nail it by accident?

Ah. Just how far does my greatness go?

No one could know...

Anyway.

Was it really okay to slander him like this on purpose?

Sure. If it’s unfair, come out and explain that it isn’t true—explain your “misunderstanding” you kept babbling about.

But there wasn’t any explanation. He wasn’t even here.

Then fine. What I say is the truth.

Qing raised the fist she’d been clenching tight.

And with boiling emotion, this orator shouted powerfully!

“And everyone! Right now, that petty, cowardly Pyeong Goun is shut up in his room pretending he doesn’t know anything! Is that acceptable?!”

“No!” “It isn’t!”

“Then let us shout together! The voice of the enraged people—the voice that calls out someone who ignored and mocked those who have nothing!”

“That’s right!” “Good!” “Waaaa!”

“Shout with me! Pyeong Goun—come out!”

“Pyeong Goun—come out!”

“Pyeong Goun, come out and apologize! Apologize!”

“Apologize! Apologize!”

“Pyeong Goun, you evil bastard! Come out right now!”

“Evil bastard! Come out right now!”

Since the crowd was so large, their unified shouting rang out across the spring sky.

The crowd probably didn’t even know what they were shouting anymore.

Once it seeped in, you got dragged along without even realizing you’d been poisoned—this was Formless Poison.

In other words: incitement.

At this point, ignoring it became the worst move.

If you were going to explain yourself, you had to explain yourself right now, while the crowd was gathered. If the crowd dispersed, they’d talk about this everywhere—once it spread through the whole city, it would already be far too late.

Once a rumor spread, wasn’t it useless no matter how much you insisted it wasn’t true?

So even if Pyeong Goun never came out, Qing had already won, and she’d gotten all the fun she wanted.

And if Pyeong Goun came out?

This bastard was really dead.

I wasn’t even planning to pull out the battle-axe.

You dared to flip over a meal table belonging to an elder who’s practically at my teacher’s level, and then you run with that shameless face and clamp your mouth shut?

Only—

There was one part Qing hadn’t expected.

“What is all this uproar?!”

Someone came out—but it was a different person.

A middle-aged man strode out through the main gate, fighters lined up to his left and right, and he bellowed in a huge voice.

He resembled Pyeong Goun, but with much wider pores and deeper wrinkles—like Pyeong Goun aged up.

There was no way he’d aged that much in the meantime.

They said blood couldn’t be denied. Could it be the Azure Dragon Gate sect leader?

“How dare you raise your voices! Do you dare look down on the Azure Dragon Gate?! Fine—keep talking. I’ll watch and see if you can still talk like that in front of me!”

At the furious shout, the crowd clamped their mouths shut all at once, as if they’d never made a sound.

Qing straightened her posture first.

This was a problem between Qing and Pyeong Goun. The Azure Dragon Gate had failed to manage its disciples, sure, but Qing hadn’t formed open hostility with the Azure Dragon Gate itself.

So she should show proper courtesy first—

“And you. You insolent bitch. The more I hear, the more absurd it becomes. You dare insult my son—are you that confident in your skill? Confident enough to face the entire sect?”

Three deep furrows carved into Qing’s brow.

No, but—why are you the one getting mad?

The ones who should be mad are me and the wanderers.

Isn’t the one at fault the one who couldn’t keep their kid on a leash?

Then again... like father, like son.

A bastard is, in the end, a bastard—the child of a dog. Doesn’t that mean the parent is a dog too?

And Qing was the type who shrank endlessly in front of the strong.

But?

In front of the weak, she was more confident than anyone.

Is the Azure Dragon Gate stronger than me?

If they all rushed me at once, maybe.

But if Pyeong Goun has the Azure Dragon Gate sect leader, I have my teacher.

Is the sect leader stronger than me?

If he’s not in the Transcendent Realm, there isn’t anyone stronger than me.

And if the Azure Dragon Gate sect leader were in the Transcendent Realm, it would’ve been famous long ago.

Meaning—I’m stronger.

Am I in the morally superior position?

Yes. I’m always a moral man—morality itself, living and breathing.

Meaning my cause is far superior too, right?

So Qing became confident.

And confident Qing answered without backing down.

“So, even if someone commits any evil they want, the weaker side should just endure it and let it pass? Then the strong can commit any tyranny they like. Is that the sect leader’s will—and the spirit of the Azure Dragon Gate?”