Chapter 729: The Great Instructor Ximen Qing (1)

The Righteous-Proper Martial Academy Admissions Office Headquarters, underground cells.

If Qing had heard that name, her first thought would’ve been: why the hell does the Academy’s Admissions Office Headquarters have an underground cell block, and doesn’t that connection feel just a little off?

In fact, she had thought exactly that.

I mean, come on. Put it in homeland terms and what do you get? Central Plains High School Basement Prison. Central Plains University Basement Prison. How is this any different.

Which was being way too naive about the Central Plains.

The history of the Central Plains wasn’t martial arts history; it was the history of group war-survival. In the Central Plains, not in the martial world, if you had a tenement block or a big manor, of course you designed a prison into it.

You just didn’t call it a prison. You designed it as a “warehouse,” a “storage room,” and when you didn’t have any prisoners, you actually used it as a warehouse so as not to waste space—Central Plains people’s wisdom at work.

So, to be precise—

The Righteous-Proper Martial Academy Admissions Office Headquarters, underground storage.

It was just that, for “storage,” the layout looked suspiciously like someone had hidden treasure down here. A thick iron door at the top of the stairs, another thick iron door at the bottom, the whole thing sealed tight.

No light came in, leaving the place murky. Despite being a “warehouse,” it was divided into a series of small rooms, and each of those small rooms had, beyond its own iron door, iron bars on the inner side blocking it off.

Yeah. This was just a goddamn prison.

Why exactly does the Academy Admissions Office Headquarters have a basement prison (abridged).

Qing had been carried down in a slightly bizarre posture, given the state of the front of her body.

They had carried her princess-style, sure, but there were still countless shards lodged in her belly, abdomen, even her chest. Bending hurt, so she’d stretched herself out ruler-straight, stiff as a board.

Moyong Juhee very carefully set Qing down.

Because Qing’s body was so rigidly straight, it looked like she was propping up a scarecrow.

“Mm. I’m probably going to get a little rough. It’ll be awkward to watch. Can you go wait upstairs?”

“Will you be all right? You’re hurt too, my lady. If it’s torture, I can help. Leave it to me. Just say the word and I’ll just—”

“I’ll be fine. Also, that... sounds kind of wrong. And it’s not torture, it’s interrogation. Strictly interrogation. If we call it torture, I sound like some kind of professional torturer.”

Normal people didn’t usually say “let me help with the torture” or “leave the torture to me.”

But this was also the same Miss Moyong who’d shaken like a leaf over that simple little anatomy lesson, wasn’t she.

Right now, though, there wasn’t a hint of that. Only a very fine, concentrated murderous intent burned in her eyes, as if her passion for anatomy had burst into full flame. Moyong’s mental growth was honestly dazzling to see.

Still, no matter how proud she might be of Moyong, there were some things Qing just could not, in all fairness, yield.

Why?

Because I deserve some fun too.

Given the situation, the person with the highest right to enjoy the supreme pleasure of revenge was, first and foremost, her. In second place, that nameless little girl. Mandarlo? That dog scrap barely rated third.

“I told you, I’ll be fine. And stop edging over this way and nodding along all subtle like that. Makes it look like you’re staying too.”

Seol Iri snapped her head away.

Apparently furious, she’d been shadowing Qing all day like this. Every time Qing spoke to her, she’d turn her head aside the same way, projecting “Seol Iri: Angry” with her whole posture.

What is this, why is Gunyeong acting more and more like a kid?

Even Jayeo didn’t go this far. Well, okay, maybe Jangmyeong would. Actually, Jangmyeong would absolutely do this. Did she catch it from Jangmyeong?

“Don’t overdo it.”

Peng Daesan’s bass rumbled out—not really angry, more resigned. The sound of someone saying: there’s no helping it.

Worry and concern sat heavy in that voice, and Qing grinned.

“Overdo what? It’s just picking the meat off a fish that’s already grilled. Go on, shoo. Get back upstairs. All of you. You too, Deputy-Adjutant.”

Sima Chunbong’s brows were still hooked upward.

After a long moment of hesitation, she finally spoke to dissuade Qing.

Silencing them by killing. In Qing’s homeland, they called it “the dead don’t talk.”

Central Plains people tossed that phrase around easily enough, but actually carrying it out was another story entirely.

Things had already gone beyond repair.

She and the ones claiming to be Golden Guard had become mortal, irreconcilable enemies. It wasn’t a relationship you could patch up with, “Oh dear, turns out you were doing the country’s work, heh, I had no idea, my bad.”

So Sima Chunbong had no choice but to agree to this extreme measure called silencing by killing. But even so—

“Heavenly Flower Sword, this kind of thing—no matter who you are, even you—there’s no need to shoulder it alone—”

“Come on. They did a number on me too, I’m just... taking the chance to settle a few grudges while I’m at it. I told you, I’m fine. Actually, this is better.”

Qing cut her off.

Whatever “Heavenly Flower Sword” was supposed to mean, it was probably just a shortened expression for that whole “same as us blah blah superior future leader” line.

Sima Chunbong nodded, solemn.

Cutting down an enemy in the heat of life-and-death combat was one thing. Killing a captive who’d already been subdued and could no longer resist was something else entirely.

Now the Heavenly Flower Sword was declaring she’d bear that weight of slaughter alone—that if anyone’s hands had to be stained with blood, hers alone would be enough! (That was not what she’d said.)

And to say “this is better,” as if she were some kind of demon who enjoyed slaughter, when she clearly wasn’t that sort of person at all—(she absolutely was)—with those clumsy excuses and that nonsensical logic—(she meant every word).

Sima closed her eyes.

Very well. We must accept the Heavenly Flower Sword’s heart.

Not that she’d gotten a single thing right.

“I’m ashamed, but I, your Deputy-Adjutant, will accept that noble resolve. Just this once, I must admit my defeat. Really. You... just this once, I have no choice but to acknowledge you.”

Sima Chunbong said that, and gave Qing a bitter smile with eyes that somehow felt hot and tingly.

Qing just thought: ...what the hell is she going on about now.

Their party turned to go. SKREEE—iron door closing.

Faintly, from beyond the door, came the soft TAK TAK of footsteps climbing the stairs. After a while, SKREEK—another iron door closing.

And then the world went quiet, leaving only the soft pop and crackle of embers in the brazier.

Light and shadow split Qing’s face sharply, the flicker of the flames making the glow of firelight ripple across her features.

Youngban sat in cross-legged silence, contemplating his insides.

A stabbing cold ache in his dantian; a searing chill racing along his meridians as a cold, evil qi slithered through them.

Minor Water Art’s Minor Cold-Poison. Its reputation was deserved. A vicious infiltrating art that was merciless to the extreme.

Normally he would’ve pinned it down with inner energy, sealed it somewhere, then taken elixirs or sought a doctor’s help to deal with this emergency inner injury.

But thanks to those crooked martial-world thugs filling the place with Energy-Scattering Incense, he was down to a mere handful of inner power.

Now that some of the incense had finally dissipated, Youngban was diligently circulating that tiny handful, trying to nurture it even a little.

He didn’t know how long he sat like that.

Suddenly, a thought skimmed through his mind.

When had it last been that he’d carefully coddled such a pathetic amount of inner power—only a few breaths’ worth, so feeble it was almost nothing?

Back when he’d first joined the Golden Guard.

Iron-Heart Inner Art—thinking of it now, an embarrassingly shabby inner-heart method. But at the time, he’d been giddy with joy.

He’d vowed to become the greatest master under heaven, to stand above ten thousand, under one, and serve the Son of Heaven at the very peak.

Back then, he’d cut sleep to run his inner art, to work and work at it. He’d never been lazy in his training since. Those memories, stretching back further and further, rose up from the deep and drifted through his mind.

Youngban’s eyelids slowly lifted halfway, revealing half his pupils.

His eyes were half-open and unfocused.

But the light in them was clear, because his gaze was not on this place or this time. He was tracing his own life from that distant past up to the present—

BANG BANG BANGBANGBANG!!!

A sudden, shrill racket shattered his deep meditation.

His focus snapped back at once. The prickly, irritable glare he turned toward the noisy visitor shifted in an instant to pure shock.

“You... how are you alive—no, how are you that uninjured.”

“I am not uninjured, okay? I feel like I’m dying. Granted, it’s not life-threatening, so I’m not actually going to die, but still. Heaven-Shaking Thunder? Yeah, that stung a bit.”

Youngban’s pupils trembled.

She’d lived through that? No—he could still see the pitch-black demon figure leaping out of the blast in his mind’s eye. He’d written it off as the final thrashings of a fiend about to die.

Qing snorted.

“And seriously—what’s with the enlightenment act from the bastard who threw his own men away and ran? What, did you find No Possessions or something? Feel all free and clear after ditching all your subordinates?”

Youngban’s face twisted.

“You wretch— you wretch!”

His face went crimson in a heartbeat.

“Okay. First, ground rule. That whole ‘I’ll never speak, I’ll bite my tongue before I bow to pain’ thing? Banned. If you try that, I will make you regret being born. You get what I’m saying?”

“You dare threaten a servant of the Son of Heaven?”

Qing grinned.

“Yup. Got a problem with that?”

“I bear the imperial command, which is Heaven’s will made manifest, and you dare utter such treasonous nonsense!”

Qing just beamed.

Then she pointed up with one finger.

“Look. See any Heaven up there? Heaven’s only Heaven as long as nothing’s in the way. You cover the sky, there goes Heaven. Even if we had not just the Son of Heaven but the Son of Heaven’s grandfather, how exactly is he going to know what happened down here?”

“You—! How dare you!!!”

“Come on, relax. Listen.”

Qing cleared her throat—then couldn’t quite stifle a groan as the motion tugged at her injuries. After that slip, she continued, in the exaggerated tone of a street storyteller.

“Suddenly, a gang of lawless assassins attacked innocent civilians in the market streets, so the righteous heroes of the Orthodox world stepped forth, slaughtered them all, and protected the peace of the realm. Ah, what a tale to gladden the Son of Heaven’s heart.”

“You—”

“Keep listening. Sadly, though, when those heinous assassins were struck by divine wrath, all their heads were shattered, so their identities could not be learned. If only there’d been something left that could have told us who they were. But since there wasn’t, who in the wide world could possibly know who those assassins had been?”

I’m going to blow all your heads off.

I’m going to get rid of anything that could identify you.

And in the end, no one in this world will ever know who you were.

Youngban’s face flushed red, then purple.

And Qing suddenly understood.

Oh. This is that thing.

You know, in every movie, every drama, when the protagonist gets captured, and the villains stand there and just... dump their entire identity and plan out loud right in front of them.

She’d never understood why they were so stupid, so helpfully forthcoming about their schemes and co-conspirators.

Now she understood.

Like hell you’re going to hold that in.

He’s dead anyway; of course you’re going to wring as much miserable, petty fun out of him as you can before you kill him.

“So. Like I said, biting your tongue is off the table. Making you write with your hands takes forever and it’s annoying. If you try that kind of stunt...”

Her smile deepened.

“You know what it means to wipe out nine generations? Let’s see. Sounds like a certain notorious Minor Water Witch is going to show up out of nowhere, wipe out an entire clan down to the last relative, and disappear again.”

Youngban’s face twisted.

God, look at that expression.

Qing was ready to savor that lovely distortion when suddenly—pff—he let out a laugh.

“You can wear the mask of a villain all you like; it won’t stick. You threw yourself in front of street rabble to save them, and now you expect me to believe you’ll carry out a massacre? Even after learning demonic arts, you’re still playing Celestial Scholar. Your effort is commendable, but all it does is make me laugh.”

Qing’s jaw dropped.

Excuse me? What the hell did he just say? I didn’t... mishear that, did I?

Sure, someone could think that, but of all people, this bastard?

The very bastard who’d packed that murderous grenade full of qi and hurled it, fully aware of how many innocent people would get caught up in it—he was the one saying this to her?

Qing just gaped.

Nobody had ever shut her up this hard. It was a historic feat: to choke the tongue of the owner of the Hell-Mouth, the Formless Poison of Verbal Abuse.

Qing drew in a long, slow breath.

Apparently this asshole did not find human words very convincing.

She vanished from his line of sight for a moment, stepping out of the cell.

From outside the door came a strained grunt as she bent at the waist—then she grabbed something and dragged it back, heavy and scraping.

One man, dragged along by the hair, limp and helpless. Behind him, a thick dark trail sketched itself across the floor, as if someone were painting giant calligraphy in blood.

Youngban exploded.

“Jang Cheonho! You wretch, let that hand go at once!”

So Qing did exactly that.

THUD! His hair ripped free of her grip and his skull slammed hard into the floor.

“You wretch, how dare you! Jang Cheonho! Wake up!”

“......! .........!”

What came back was the faint hiss of a leaking bellows.

That was the full effect of Qing’s specialty: turning people into quiet little blowfish by punching a breathing hole in their throat.

You poked one air hole in, it made them so very quiet.

Qing planted her fists on her hips.

“See? You look like you think I’m easy. But I already nabbed your subordinate too. I am that scary.”