Chapter 727: When Going Out, Maintain Your Dignity (21)

At the moment of the blast, Qing knew.

Ah, this... this is not it. Wait—just—

A THUNDEROUS BOOM.

The demon’s body jolted.

Her tightly hunched waist buckled like an old crone’s, her folded arms and legs snapped open, and from those gaps, an explosive surge of dust and dirt blasted outward.

A yellow dust-storm like a desert sand gale roared up and swallowed the street.

People who had reflexively thrown themselves flat, or lain there clutching their heads, slowly lifted their faces with anxious eyes.

All they could see was that murky yellow haze—

And through it, something black burst out.

The demon, wreathed in swirling dust and visible air-currents, spewing pitch-black smoke from its mouth, charged.

Maybe it was a foregone outcome.

Jang Cheonho, fleeing with Youngban on his back, had gradually started to slow, glancing backward over and over, staring at that thick cloud of dust, whispering to himself—

Did we get it?

A desperate wish, solidified into fate.

You could say this disaster happened because the Central Plains still had no clue about the occult power of words—about the way that a thousand stories, all about the same thing, prove some deep-rooted human instinct for resurrection.

Either way, the demon was fine.

No—not fine. You couldn’t see it clearly because it was so black, but under that glossy sheen its body had to be drenched in blood.

This fucking hurts. Those bastards are dead.

Qing’s eyes rolled white with rage.

When the blast crushes your internal organs and sprays metal fragments deep into all your muscles, when there isn’t a single intact patch left on your torso or thighs or arms—yeah, you’ve got plenty of right to be angry.

You dogshit bastards, what kind of filthy way of fighting is this—grenades? In the sacred martial world? This is sorcery. Sorcery, you assholes. I’m going to catch you and shove a Heaven-Shaking Thunder up your back door and blow you apart.

No, that’s too easy. I’ll shove bamboo into your front door, pack it with powder, and light it. After one proper session of moxibustion, you’ll start sobbing every time you smell gunpowder. Then I’ll cut off your arms and legs and toss you into a mudflat, you waste-of-skin freaks.

Youngban and Jang Cheonho would have a case to complain.

Nobody put a sword to Qing’s neck and forced her to dive on the Heaven-Shaking Thunder. She’d jumped on it herself, taken the whole thing, and now she was the one going berserk and radiating killing intent.

But the angry don’t have logic.

And this fucking Heaven-Breaking Demonic Qi, this Celestial Demon Divine Art? Divine Art, my ass. You can’t even block a single grenade, and you call yourself some grand world-ending cultivation? Central Plains annihilation? If you took a direct hit from a single cannon you’d crumple and say “We’ll get them next time,” and that’s how you ended up here, isn’t it?

I knew the Demon Cult was a mess the moment I saw them. You fail once, that’s a failure. You fail twice, you change your approach. You fail three, four times, and still can’t figure out that the next ten, hundred tries will be the same—that’s why you’re stuck like this.

Heaven-Breaking Demonic Qi was deeply offended.

This wasn’t just any Heaven-Shaking Thunder; this was the real deal from the imperial palace, a superpowered explosive designed to kill martial artists.

It had gnawed its metaphysical teeth to dust, grieving to the point of shattering, over saving these Central Plains bastards who deserved to be chewed up and spat out—and now this is what it got back?

How is a demonic qi supposed to keep doing its job under these working conditions?

So Heaven-Breaking Demonic Qi got angry, too.

This is all those bastards’ fault!

Qing and the demonic qi exploded in rage together, and with injuries that would make it no surprise if she collapsed at any moment, the demon still hurled itself forward.

If anything, it got worse.

Now black smoke poured from eyes and mouth alike, and with its back bent, it charged on two legs and two arms like a beast.

Outright frenzy.

Jang Cheonho panicked and forced his speed back up.

The demon-beast, now nearly a full monster, chased them.

Its gaze was completely gone—all you could see in its sockets were black skeins, growing and shrinking, rotating and trembling.

If you gathered all the world’s killing intent, spun it into threads, and knotted them into a tangled mass—this is what it would look like.

Then—

Jang Cheonho’s expression hardened.

Because Youngban was shouting in his ear, issuing a certain order.

—You’re trying to play the hero, are you? Then I’ll give you another chance to be a hero. If we catch someone and maim them badly enough and throw them in its way, the thing will have to stop to deal with them. Find a suitable target. Preferably young. And female, if possible.

“Youngban! You mean—!”

—Think of the greater good. The martial world created that monster; His Majesty must be told, and it must be purged. Are you planning to repeat that damned humiliation with the Heavenly Martial Emperor all over again?!

Jang Cheonho gritted his teeth—and flung Youngban forward.

Youngban’s body shot ahead, straightened in midair, and rushed toward a civilian girl whose eyes went wide in shock as he closed.

SWHIP, SWHIP—his hands lashed out. Blood spattered in arcs along his fingertips. The greasy feel of human fat packing under his nails made him want to gag.

“KYAA—AAAHHH!”

The girl, attacked without even understanding why, barely got a single pathetic shriek out before her body spun up into the air, hurling her into a helpless arc.

Her blood sprayed across the path of the black beast that the demon had become.

The demon, venting black smoke in heavy gusts, yanked its huge claws back; its body jerked, trembling like a broken machine.

Then, with a panic that was distinctly, unmistakably human, it flung both arms out and carefully caught the girl flying toward it.

“Kh—!”

A thin spurt of blood slipped from its lips; the demon’s—Qing’s—body flinched.

Her gaze swung to the fleeing assassins, then back down to the girl. When she lifted her head, those bastards’ backs had already jumped two strides farther away.

When she dropped her gaze again, the girl’s eyes were brimming, tears about to spill over and roll down both cheeks.

It was a scheme so obvious its intentions were transparent.

A hostage.

Go ahead, let her die and come chase us.

Qing’s fist clenched.

Her hand shook—those bastards—but this kid—those bastards had to be stopped; if she didn’t deal with them now this girl would die; but even if she did, she couldn’t guarantee the girl’s life; and if she let them go, they’d just create countless more girls like this.

“Ssshi—”

GRIND. Her upper and lower teeth scraped with heavy pressure.

You miserable pieces of shit. I am never letting you go. I’ll chase you to the ends of hell. I’ll keep you alive for a thousand, ten thousand years, never letting you die, just writhing in misery.

Qing’s hands flew.

She was a martial artist, a carpenter, and a field medic. Her fingers raced over the girl’s wounds, tearing cloth, wrapping, yanking out loose threads to make suture-line.

Even as she worked, her eyes kept darting up and down—down to the girl, forward to the fleeing backs—burning with the most ominous color in the world, as if vowing never to forget.

She looked down again, pinched off severed vessels, froze them to staunch the bleeding—

Then lifted her head.

And the corner of her mouth twitched.

Two assassins running as one, sharing a body like a puppet on a carrier’s back—and beyond them, from the opposite direction, familiar faces rushing in toward her.

Changbin dropped into a kneel mid-sprint and thrust interlaced fingers up like a platform; San—was that San?—stepped on his hands and launched forward.

Beside them, Gunyeong did the same, and Moyong Juhee stepped on Gunyeong and flew.

The virtue of a weaker fighter offering their body as a foothold to a stronger one—

Or put another way, the healthy martial-world sight of a high-level expert using a lower-level one as a springboard.

Even without her, their timing was perfect.

As chairwoman, Qing was very pleased.

She relaxed and let her hands move.

Footsteps clicked closer.

She glanced up—and oh, wow.

Chunbong was running.

Her chest was bouncing.

Everything was bouncing.

Their eyes met, and Qing bellowed:

“You righteous Orthodox bitch! I, the great Minor Water Witch—yes, I, the Minor Water Witch, should tear you limb from limb on sight! But I, the Minor Water Witch, cannot let an innocent girl die, so I will let you go—for now! Begone at once!”

If she hugged them now, the Orthodox prodigies and the Minor Water Witch would have a heartwarming moment of deep mutual understanding, wouldn’t they?

Her impersonation came from deep in her heart, a performance so natural anyone would be fooled.

Even the joy bubbling in her chest couldn’t break her dedication to this cover.

Sima Chunbong froze.

“Uh. Mm. U-uh.”

A pause should be brief to be called a pause, but Sima Chunbong stuttered like a broken person.

What the hell, is she actually smart?

Qing had assumed the strategist-girl would catch on right away and play along, but that girl [N O V E L I G H T] was just standing there, struggling to find her line.

“Uh, I... um...”

Qing sighed inwardly.

So Chunbong was all brains and no instincts.

She downgraded her evaluation of Sima Chunbong by three full tiers and sprang to her feet.

She’d stabilized the worst of the wounds; now it was time for a real physician with proper tools and medicine.

“Wh-where are you—”

“This girl’s life is in danger, so I, the Minor Water Witch, am going to find a doctor! Orthodox girl, if you’re not here to block my way, then kindly step aside. If you’ve got nothing better to do, how about cleaning up those vile assassins’ leftovers?”

“Ah, ahem. I, Sima Rang, shall—”

Chunbong finally seemed ready to say something, but Qing cut her off clean.

Chunbong’s face flashed briefly hurt.

“Leave those foul beasts alive! I will personally take their lives! I, the Minor Water Witch, say—if you are not prepared to face me directly, do not grant them a merciful death! Agh!”

Qing left her message.

Rough translation: If you can help it, don’t kill them—capture them alive.

The Minor Water Witch, in flawlessly natural Minor Water Witch behavior, leapt away.

The scream at the end—anyone would understand.

Even Qing, with her high pain tolerance, could barely hold back a shout as she stepped on footwork with a body torn apart by a blast.

****

The doctor was startled.

First, because some weirdo kicked the clinic door in—literally kicked it off its hinges and blew it in to make her entrance.

“Wh-what in the—?!”

Then he was startled a second time by the state of the person she laid down.

It wasn’t blood, per se—he was used to blood. He saw it every day.

But the amount.

A lifetime in medicine teaches you to estimate blood loss from the stains on their clothes.

“Sorry, it’s urgent, abdominal lacerations, multiple. From the Qimen line down toward Zhongwan—”

He was startled a third time when the weirdo rattled off the details in textbook medical jargon.

But only for a moment. Once he’d heard the full description, his expression turned grave, and at last, having taken in the case, he clicked his tongue.

“Tsk. A woman this well-trained in medicine, and you drag me a walking corpse? With that much blood gone, this isn’t a patient, it’s a cadaver. I understand your compassion, but sometimes you have to let them go. Foolish girl.”

“Huh? The blood loss isn’t that bad. I stopped the bleeding right there on the spot. It’s a cut, sure, but the qi-slice was clean, so the wound margins are neat—”

“Tsk, tsk. You call that ‘stopped the bleeding’ when you’re covered head to toe in blood? Get a grip.”

“Oh, this? This isn’t her blood, it’s mine. Ah. A bit... yeah, quite a bit.”

And only then did Qing sway.

Her head spun.

She’d sprinted here in one burst of panic, and only now looked down.

Her entire front was bright red.

Even with another woman’s gown thrown over her own clothes, double-layered, it had soaked through.

“Ah. Okay. I might be a little screwed.”

Qing slumped sideways and went down.

The doctor clucked his tongue.

“Aigo, the corpse carried the patient in. Suyeong! Close the clinic right now and boil water! Make restorative broth and call every assistant-woman we have—this instant!”

Voices shouting, busy and far away.

Qing’s consciousness drifted off into the distance.