Chapter 681: The New Semester Has Begun (15)

A full-grown tall young lady lifts another full-grown tall young lady by the waist and carries her off.

All the while, a constant “KKI-HYAAAK!” bird-cry keeps bursting out, then gives way, again and again, to those “HUK, HAK” death-rattle breaths right before she runs out of air.

If Ximen Surin were to see this, she would ask whether her disciple had finally lost her mind—how could she not distinguish what ought and ought not be shown before people—and her solemn voice would descend at light-speed like a nuclear warhead itself.

Unfortunately, Ximen Surin is not here.

And in truth, it wasn’t even something so face-losing.

Girls squealing and horsing around is not, by nature, a scene others find hateful or ugly.

If anything, onlookers would gaze on with pleased faces.

Ximen Surin would say precisely that gaze is the problem. Even if women romp and tease one another, is that the manner befitting their station?—and so on.

It was just as Qing neared the banquet hall.

Laughter consumes a shocking amount of stamina.

Try to laugh nonstop for even a quarter of a quarter-hour (about four minutes), and you’ll know.

Laughter uses every muscle of the body, subjects the respiratory system to harsh abuse, and lays a massive load on the circulatory system—a truly brutal full-body exercise.

Thus, for Sima Chunbong, whose martial level was merely first-rate, he was already completely spent.

His abs ached as if little knots had formed, his whole body felt waterlogged and lead-heavy, his throat stung with every breath, and his voice was utterly hoarse, a beastly rattle mixing into every inhale.

“Sima-rang? You’re not going to eat? Do you hate eating with me that much?”

“This... Sima... will... not...— KAK!”

Then, all at once, Sima Chunbong went slack.

Gasp—did he die?

Startled, Qing poked his flank.

A flinch—thank goodness, there was a reaction; perhaps he had fainted, but now it looked like he had simply hit his physical limit.

Holding the once more limp Sima Chunbong, Qing felt a twinge of remorse.

Mm. Maybe I overdid it a little? But it was fun.

So saying, she kneaded—hm? No response at all—press, press.

“HEEIT, HIYAK— stop— st—op......”

“Are you going to have dinner?”

Just then.

Qing suddenly felt a gaze touch her.

She turned her head.

“Lady Ximen...? Why only Hyunhwa. What about—what about me...? You even promised me.”

Moyong Juhee—eyes welling to the brim, tiny face making them look even larger—murmured with the forlornness of a rain-soaked puppy, and her eyes met Qing’s dead on.

“Hm? Lady Moyong? When did you come?”

“Around the time you punched that insolent examinee in the pit of the stomach......”

Moyong Juhee was utterly dejected for some reason.

If it was around the time of the sternum punch, that would be after lunch; she must have arrived long ago and been watching. Still, she seemed hurt that Qing hadn’t noticed.

“Hoo... hoo... if the Heavenly Flower Sword... HOO... so... earnestly... HUK... desires it... then this Sima, for this once... HOO... must yield— URK.”

Sima Chunbong—the man who would not admit defeat even in death—at last said he would concede, and promptly collapsed to the ground.

He’d already been dangling like a scarecrow on the verge of collapse; the instant Qing let go of his waist, he simply plummeted.

Qing spread her arms wide.

“Come, Lady Moyong—reunion hug?”

“Ah...! Yes...!”

Moyong Juhee blossomed into a full smile and hurled herself at Qing with fierce momentum.

The force was unexpected.

She figured the girl would merely come and hug—she hadn’t expected a full two-arms-wide flying leap.

Like those flying squirrels from back home, “Hold me!”—was it a flying squirrel? Whatever; exactly that sort of thing.

It seemed Lady Moyong was far happier to see me than I’d thought.

No harm matching her mood, so Qing went all in—wrapped Moyong Juhee up and twirled, swaying in a circling dance.

“Hee-hee......”

Moyong Juhee laughed with pure delight.

What’s this—on Jayeo’s level exactly? Is she a kid?

Well, Lady Moyong is a little squirt too; judged by stature she’s closer to “child,” I suppose.

Down below, Sima Chunbong lay fallen in the shape of a swastika 卍. No, not merely “thinking”—he squeezed out a dying voice through those ragged breaths.

“Ugh... too cruel. Heavenly Flower Sword, to inflict such relentless pain and wring out my concession, then treat me so at once—but fine, this too is one facet of genius: cruelty and pitilessness. In terms of cruelty and pitilessness, I award victory to the Heavenly Flower Sword.”

But cruelty and pitilessness can never be called virtues, so even if you’ve won, it cannot count as an official event of the match......

Whether Sima Chunbong said it aloud or only thought it, even he could no longer be sure, his eyes blurring as he sagged.

****

The Junior Division of the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy was Junior Division in name only—strictly speaking, it wasn’t Junior Division at all.

To be precise, it would be closer to a Nobles’ Division, or Division of Distinguished Persons.

Because the entire intake was by recommendation, a social gala of orthodox youths already within the fence of orthodox Murim.

Considering the Academy had originally been founded as a seasonal training retreat to build ties among the boys and girls of orthodox Murim, you could even say this was closer to its essence.

Then could talented children not enter the Academy?

Of course the orthodox side is not so sloppy.

Thus, though children, those with talent would train not in the Junior Division but in the general halls alongside young adults.

From the standpoint of drawing talent into the orthodox camp, the junior cohort is even easier to bind with debts than the youth cohort, their futures bright and long.

You might say that for an orthodox event the inner motive is too petty and calculating.

But the Martial Alliance is merely an interest group of an orthodox armed bloc, not a charity foundation.

Anyway.

Jegal Hyang—scion of an ancient noble house that had sent its children to the Junior Division for generations—now faced a truly nerve-racking counterpart.

“H-hi. I’m Hyang.”

At that, Jayeo’s lusterless pupils blankly took in Jegal Hyang.

To adults, the kid would look listless—black circles under the eyes, what a tired-looking child.

But at a child’s eye level, Jayeo’s abyss-black pupils were frankly frightening.

“Who.”

“Uh, well, I’m... your mother, sweetie?”

A tiny crease formed between Jayeo’s brows.

It was an expression learned from watching her cool mom.

Jegal Hyang flinched.

To Qing, Jayeo was always adorable, but to her peers she exuded a surprisingly chilly pressure.

Partly the ghostly air that comes from innumerable stacked kill-karma.

“You’re a kid too.”

A counter—aren’t you too young to be claiming to be Mom?

Even Jayeo—who had grown somewhat used to Dad(?) calling any woman he knew “Mom”—seemed resistant where Jegal Hyang was concerned.

“B-but, uh, I’m Gaga’s—er, Lady Ximen’s—concubine...?”

“You’re a kid too.”

“No! Concubines can! The Song of the Four Masters even says there are lots of concubines younger than the children.”

A line to make Qing’s eyes pop if she heard it; yet in the Central Plains, tales of ludicrous power struggles between a child and a concubine younger than that child—or even forbidden love—were hardly rare.

But Jayeo tilted her head.

Because no matter what book name Hyang swung around, Jayeo hadn’t even finished the Thousand-Character Classic yet.

“What’s a concubine?”

“Mm? A concubine is—so, like? A wife. A lower-rank wife. Strictly speaking not a wife but a concubine? Hm? Why is that?”

“......? What are you talking about?”

“According to the Book of Rites, ‘The Son of Heaven has six kinds of wives: Empress, Consorts, the Second Consorts, the Ladies, the Wives, and the Concubines—called the Six Palaces.’ The Rites of Zhou commentary records: ‘The Son of Heaven’s Six Palaces are three Consorts, nine Ladies, twenty-seven Companions, and sixty-one Wives, the number of Concubines unbounded.’ Also by state law: ‘A feudal lord may have nine wives—four proper Wives and five Concubines.’ Also: ‘A man who has concubines but no Wife is as one not yet married; the household register remains under his parents.’ There, now you see? Ahem.”

Jegal Hyang put on airs.

Usually at this point everyone marvels at Ahyang’s brilliance and showers her with praise.

Of course, not Jayeo.

“......?? What are you saying? So what is a concubine?”

“Uh? A concubine is—well, a concubine?”

In truth, what did Jegal Hyang really know?

She read books (she had read a lot), but the world was just the inside of the tall walls of the Jegal compound.

The famed battles between wife and concubine and the discriminatory treatment—those things rarely arise when a household’s affluence is excessive.

Especially with the Jegal mothers, whose rough-and-tumble ways bred something like warrior-sister camaraderie.

So Jegal Hyang also didn’t know.

What’s the difference? Our mothers, proper and secondary, are deeply sisterly with each other.

She knew Wife ranked high and Concubine low—

And what Hyang did know was just enough that the basis for deciding to become Qing’s concubine boiled down to: the difference didn’t seem that big.

“Mm. Then, what is a concubine?”

“I asked you that.”

“Then let’s go ask our elders.”

Everyone has a line they don’t cross.

Jegal Hyang does not endure when she’s curious.

Powered by that signature curiosity and backed by a pounce-like initiative—gaga, let’s go ask—she seized Jayeo’s wrist and trotted off in the lead, her earlier awkwardness gone without a trace.

Jayeo—pretending she couldn’t help it—followed, looking down at the small hand tugging her along.

And so, in a house empty for exams, two brats appeared.

“Ah! Deputy-Adjutant Runner Sima! Sir Deputy-Adjutant!”

“Oh, Hyang, is it. And Jayeo? Already stuck together, the two of you?”

“Yes! That’s right. Sir Deputy-Adjutant, Sir Deputy-Adjutant—Hyang has a question.”

“Good. The duty of the wise is inquiry. An excellent posture. What are you curious about?”

“Heh-heh.”

Jegal Hyang—the consummate recipient of doting—let out a sweet little laugh, then asked at once:

“What is the difference between Wife and Concubine?”

“KUH-hup.”

“Both the Book of Rites and the state code say a man may have multiple wives and place Concubine in the ranks of wives; then why is Wife honored and Concubine base? Why is a Concubine not counted as marriage though she lives together? Why?”

“Uh... mm. Mmm.”

The Deputy-Adjutant—Chunbong’s uncle—broke out in a profuse cold sweat.

What was this? This situation?

Had this child already awakened to the wiles of the Jegal clan to bait House Sima into a trap?

But Jegal Hyang’s eyes sparkled.

Half innocence, half curiosity—pure and bright.

Next to her, the Heavenly Flower Sword’s adopted girl had, yes, a somewhat darker gaze—but even she was just blankly looking up in curiosity.

“Um—ah—oh! Suddenly something urgent! Oh dear! Sorry! A certain document left unhandled!”

The Deputy-Adjutant chose to flee.

After all, of the Thirty-Six Stratagems, the most serviceable is Headlong Flight: if there’s no profit in fighting, immediately run—this is best policy.

“Ah! It’s Abbot Wolbong!”

“Amitābha—little patron of House Jegal.”

“Master, Master—what is the difference between Wife and Concubine?”

“Amitābha—hm—Amitābha. Mmm. Amitābha. This—this humble monk has already severed worldly ties. Yes, that’s right! Severed worldly ties indeed. Therefore I know not of such matters—those very matters. Then, next time......”

Wolbong slid backward, vanishing while standing in place with a subtle body method.

Jegal Hyang’s eyes flared like kindling.

Is it that hard a question? Then I’ll find out, no matter what!

“Ah— Lord Cheon Yu! “Sir Seo of the Office!” “You—General Gyeong, right?” “Sir Scribe of the Archives!”

This was no idle fame: the Jegal child prodigy recognized at a glance anyone she’d met once.

And so—victims multiplied.

In the end, the two failed to obtain an answer.

For the Old Master said one must live pure as a child.

Matters too shameful to teach a child are things not in accord with the Way.

Thus the outside was busy with exams, and inside—thanks to the appearance of two imps—word spread and the adults began sweating as they dodged the pair.

First day of entrance examination. Ends.