Chapter 735: The Great Instructor Ximen Qing (7)

An outing is the academy’s consideration for its cadets: a break meant to soothe minds and bodies worn down by study, so they can throw themselves into training again.

So spending the whole outing just playing around doesn’t run against the original intent. Even if someone plays around wildly—utterly debauched—that’s still personal choice, just a more intense way of blowing off steam.

Still, in any group there’s always a few who stick out, and not everyone carries out the outing’s purpose so obediently.

“Kyahh. The moment you come down to the secular world, even the air’s different. The smell of people living. Krrr. Yeah. I can already smell that funky Blue Square stench. Ahh, my appetite’s waking right up.”

Blue Square. A blue square.

In other words: stinky tofu.

They say it got a fancy name because calling something “stinky tofu” wouldn’t fit the dignity of the imperial table, and because the thing is a bluish square block, it became “Blue Square” instead. Whatever the real story, it’s basically the Central Plains’ soul food.

Even the Heavenly Flower Sword—reputedly the most indiscriminate eater under heaven—had judged it after trying it: “It’s infuriating, but it’s good.”

Granted, that judgment came from a gutter girl who used to live on bugs, so her palate had no authority. If it was edible, she’d call it tasty. There was no such thing as bad food to her.

“Alright, alright. First, let’s get a drink in us. We’ll think about how to play while we drink.”

At that, one person stepped forward, looking awkward.

Jo Hyeonil—the youngest in their room. Usually quiet, gentle, mild, and obedient.

“Brother An. Sorry, but I’ve got... a personal errand.”

“Hmm? A personal errand? Oh? Is it that? This one was acting all meek and innocent, but he’s actually a full-blown lecher. That urgent, huh?”

“Uh, um? Ah. Right. So, Brother An, I’ll be going.”

Jo Hyeonil was trying to scurry off when Brother An clamped a hand on his shoulder.

“Hold on. Let’s go together. If you’re that urgent, I’m feeling it too.”

“No, that’s not— I’m not— I have a promise to meet someone I know.”

“Someone you know? Aren’t you from Zhejiang? How do you have a promise here? And how did you even know the outing schedule to make one?”

“Well... it just worked out that way.”

“Hoo. Little Brother Jo, you’re suspicious.”

Brother An narrowed his eyes.

Jo Hyeonil swallowed hard, his pupils rolling.

At that sight, Brother An burst into laughter.

“So you even went and flirted with a woman during the admissions exam, didn’t you? What, did you tell her you’d get engaged once you settled into the Martial Alliance? Man, how’d you stand being away from her?”

“Ha, hahah... r-right. That happened. Hahaha. So, I’ll be going now.”

Jo Hyeonil tried to bolt again.

Brother An grabbed his shoulder again.

“Hey, come on. You’re being cold. You won’t even introduce your sister-in-law? This is a celebration—are only you going to enjoy it? We should at least shove some gifts into your hands before you go.”

“What? N-no, it’s not— that’s not it.”

Jo Hyeonil swallowed again, pupils rolling again.

The one who saved him was another cadet from the same room.

“Ah, come on, Brother. Not this again. He said he wants to go alone. Read the room. Little Brother Jo, hurry and go. Brother An isn’t a bad guy, he’s just... terrible at taking hints.”

“Th-then I’ll be going...”

Finally freed, Jo Hyeonil hurried off, muttering under his breath.

Seriously, a hintless bastard grabbing people like that and making things hard. That Han swine bastard, pig-trash.

“Han swine” used the “pig” character, a pretty vicious slur aimed at Han people.

So much for the room’s evaluation of him as gentle and mild. His inner thoughts were sharp with malice.

He kept muttering, over and over.

Those Han swine bastards. A people who stuff anything into their filthy pig-greed. A dirty race. The world’s garbage that ought to be wiped out to the root.

Still spitting curses like he wasn’t even trying to hide his mood, he arrived at a shabby private house tucked into a corner of Nosan County.

A man in the yard—shirt off in the early-summer heat, grubby pants loosely tied, sweeping the ground—looked up, startled, and rushed over.

Then—

BAM.

He kicked Jo Hyeonil hard in the shin.

“AAGH!!”

Jo Hyeonil crumpled, clutching his leg.

The man sweeping furrowed his brows.

“You idiot. Haah. Get inside right now, can’t you!? What are you so pissed about, snorting and frothing? You stepped outside and already lost your mind!”

If Qing had seen this, she might’ve blurted, Hey! This bastard!

The man sweeping was Dan Joya—the Gaery County loser from Guizhou who’d failed the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy admissions exam.

Jo Hyeonil shut his mouth tight, then, still with a sullen face, pushed open a door that looked strangely new compared to the collapsing thatch house and stepped inside.

Dan Joya clicked his tongue in disgust.

He couldn’t even hide his own feelings, and they were supposed to trust this kind of idiot as a spy?

Why did it have to be him?

Out of more than a dozen applicants from the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy, the ones who passed were him and two other guys like him.

Three out of a dozen—three, and all three were the worst of the lot in terms of talent.

How could luck be this bad? Like someone had deliberately plucked only the most useless ones.

Of course, the Martial Alliance had no way of knowing who he really was. And judging by the fact that there hadn’t been any reaction so far, it couldn’t be that.

In Dan Joya’s estimation, those filthy Han swine probably picked guys who looked harmless and docile because they were easy to use—pretending to “bestow grace” while turning them into slaves or disposable tools.

A little later—

A narrow earthen room was packed with four men.

The one small window they’d had was smeared shut with mud, and the newly installed door was thick, modified so even a loud voice wouldn’t leak out.

Suspicious as hell.

The only problem was that it was summer.

A stifling summer with four grown men sitting in a sealed box. The air choked in your throat. Sweat poured down like rain.

They didn’t need a separate steam room.

“Um, Boss... isn’t it kind of hot...?”

“You brat, you’re whining about weather? Hoo. Even at this moment, think of your blood-bonded compatriots who are being oppressed. Hngh, starving under those vile Central Plains people’s tyranny until they can’t even, hooouu, hold their bodies up...”

The speech wasn’t very convincing coming from someone sweating just as hard.

But seeing the cadets still sitting there with sour faces, Dan Joya launched into another tirade.

“Remember what it was like in the valley. Are you already drunk on the comfort those Central Plains pigs give you, so that this little heat, hngh, feels unbearable? Did you start thinking you could live well by standing with the oppressors and crushing your own people?”

“No.” “No.” “No.”

The answers were lifeless.

Dan Joya flinched.

Right. These were men who’d lived wretched lives. Of course they could get used to the conveniences the Central Plains offered.

His tone softened, like he was soothing children.

“Orthodox bastards are the kind who’ll stab you in the back the moment they learn you’re one of us, even if you were close friends. You’ve already taken in blood essence—if that gets exposed, you’re dead men walking. And since you’ve stepped into such dangerous missions, won’t every compatriot pray for your safety? You are their hope. Mm. Yes. Our hope.”

The three cadets’ faces hardened with a hint of grim resolve.

Dan Joya didn’t stop there. He felt around on the floor, lifted a hidden panel, opened a concealed storage space, and pulled out three wooden boxes.

“This isn’t just talk. Here, take them. A spirit medicine made by the Demon King and the Venerable together to reward your efforts.”

At the words “spirit medicine,” the cadets’ eyes lit up.

Martial artists go insane for spirit medicine. You could be asleep and still spring awake for it. Hell, you could be dead and you’d still sit up, eat it, and die again.

Dan Joya opened one box and showed what was inside.

On gold silk lay a single large pellet, luminous and blood-red, its glossy crimson flickering with a strange, seductive sheen.

The cadets stared at that blazing red glow like they were enchanted.

Then—tap.

Dan Joya snapped the lid shut.

“You can tell from the glow and size. To consume this, you need help from a master. A grueling qi-guidance that takes a full two shijin each time, but for you, I can certainly endure that much.”

“Boss...!” “We trusted you, Boss!”

Only now did real loyalty bloom in their faces.

Dan Joya nodded, putting on his most solemn expression.

Sweat beaded on his brows, nose, chin—everywhere—so the solemnity was a bit watered down, but still.

“With this pellet, your martial learning will surge, growing day by day. So you must flatter the Han swine, win their favor. Act as harmless and gentle as possible, like obedient children. And if your talent looks outstanding, taking a key position in the Martial Alliance won’t be difficult.”

“Yes.” “Yes, Boss.”

“Of course that’s the long-term goal. There’s something you need to do right now, too. But first, you have to absorb your spirit medicine. Jo Hyeonil, you’re first. You two, stand guard outside.”

“Yes, Boss!” “Yes, Boss!”

The two who got pushed back in the order looked disappointed, but stood up and filed out obediently.

Right as they were stepping out and pulling the door shut—

“Wait.”

“Yes, Boss?”

“...Leave the door open.”

It was summer.

****

Qing always looks like she’s rolling around lazily, but in truth, she believes in doing the job she’s given properly. When it’s time to actually do something, she’s usually diligent.

Her brain is the same.

People might get the wrong idea about her intelligence, but Qing isn’t someone who can’t think because she’s dumb. She just doesn’t bother thinking.

She’s the textbook case of: “Our kid’s smart, she just won’t use it.”

Even with Ximen Surin’s nuclear forehead-flick looming over her, that kind of memorization—stuffing Buddhist and Daoist classics into her skull, then later adding Confucian scriptures from the Hanlin Academy—that isn’t something an average mind can pull off.

Qing being sharp is an obvious fact.

And with her natural eye for people layered on top, remembering faces and names was easy as long as she cared even a little.

Of course, she almost never wants to use her head, so she usually doesn’t bother storing things.

But add in her annoyingly strong sense of responsibility, and her duty as an instructor, and memorizing cadet faces and names is no big deal.

So here she is “observing.” Which is a nice way of saying she’s too hurt to move and is basically backseat-coaching by voice.

And while she’s doing class like that, she blinks.

Huh?

Qing sees people a little differently from most.

When she reads the flow of qi, she observes a person’s full form as volume and mass—like she’s viewing them along three underlying axes that make up the world.

She also sees numbers floating over their heads.

And right now, the number over a cadet’s head—

Huh? What is that? Why is it like this?

Back when she was serving as an examiner, hadn’t Qing written on the evaluation sheets of any applicant whose bad karma was near or over one hundred: “Reinvestigate. I’ve got a bad feeling”?

The academy’s side had accepted her opinion outright. They sent everyone away with “next time”—

Except for one guy who was so obviously palace-connected they passed him anyway.

So among the cadets, there hadn’t been anyone with serious bad karma.

Except one.

But today, suddenly—

There are three.

Three of them.

No, you little bastards?

What the hell. Why did your bad karma jump fifty points?

What did you go and do on outing?

Qing’s eyes narrowed.