Chapter 787: Bloodline (21)

Behind any divine might, behind any vast feat that people believe no human could accomplish, there’s always supposed to be an afterglow.

The one move Qing had just shown was destructive enough to make anyone’s skin crawl with awe, and it would have been fair to say the reason everyone’s eyes were on her was to honor that magnificent strike. Would have been.

“How dare you, to the Hall of the Supreme Pole, the brilliant cradle of history that has borne a thousand years!”

Her mouth shattered that awe in one blow.

Also, where the hell did the “thousand years” even come from, when the Forbidden City was barely two hundred years old and counted as new construction by Central Plains standards.

“Hey! Why are you trying to dump that on me? If I hadn’t cut it aside and had just dodged, the beam would have hit the foundation and brought the whole thing down! And a thousand years, you say? I am telling you the Forbidden City has only just passed two hundred years!”

His voice practically dripped with aggrieved resentment.

But Qing didn’t back down for a second.

“Who’s responsible for protecting the Hall of the Supreme Pole? Whoever broke it, if you failed to stop that brutal destruction, that’s the failure of the security officer in charge! And what do you mean, two hundred years? The thousand-year spirit of Zhonghua is dwelling in it, that’s what matters! How dare you belittle His Majesty’s great hall—you barbarian! No, you’re not like a barbarian, you are one!”

“That—”

Beom Yakgong flinched.

Because that part actually made sense—if a thief broke into your house, that was obviously the fault of the bodyguards.

“A-a mere thousand years, you say—how dare you compress the history of Zhonghua into a thousand years! A thousand years ago there were already countless forebears before the Great Tang—”

“Forebears, you say? A rebel conspirator dares to speak of forebears? A monstrous traitor who tried to assassinate the Son of Heaven dares to put ancestors in his mouth!”

“Wh-what, tried to assassinate the Son of Heaven—who—”

“Silence! In the dead of night when no one was around, the security chief of the Hall of the Supreme Pole secretly! Dared to intrude upon and sit upon His Majesty’s imperial throne! Your treacherous heart was already pointed at rebellion long ago, you old criminal!”

Every time she opened her mouth, baseless slander poured out.

From “destroyer of the Forbidden City” to “barbarian,” from “barbarian” to “traitor who dreams of killing the Son of Heaven,” it all flowed together in a perfectly smooth chain of horrific accusations.

But instead of retorting, Beom Yakgong just stared, eyes wide, looking stunned.

“Eh. Wait, you actually sat on the imperial throne?”

“N-no! Who would dare covet the imperial—”

“Wow, he really was a traitor! Everybody—no, Your Majesties! Just listen to this old man, ‘guard the imperial throne,’ and he sits in it himself going, I am the Son of Heaven, ahem-ahem.”

All eyes turned to Beom Yakgong.

Seriously? He’d really sat on the imperial throne in the middle of the night?

Beom Yakgong’s face flushed red.

Whether that blazing red face was from aggrieved injustice or pure embarrassment only he knew. But the way he clamped his mouth shut without refuting a word made it feel a lot more like the latter.

This was the power of Formless Poison—the wicked tongue carrying venom like a viper.

It was an art of throwing away her own “dignity” long ago, grabbing the enemy by the hair, and dragging them into the mud to roll together.

Qing had never had anything to do with authority or dignity in the first place, and she was the type who’d rather be a silly, approachable person than some stern, solemn figure people found difficult.

Which meant Qing was a very low, nasty woman.

Qing was born to be the “funny chick,” so even if other people saw her as a clown, she didn’t lose anything.

But the enemy—especially here in the Central Plains, where older men and those with high rank treated “face” as something as precious as their own life—

If she dragged them into the mud with her, the damage was one-sided, a childish and vile tactic of forcing them alone to pay the price.

You, me, and us—a Trinity of “we all fall together,” a first-class express ticket to the abyss for everyone involved.

“For the crime of mocking the august Heavenly Dynasty! I, Young Hero Qing Ximen Qing—yes! In the name of justice—I will never forgive you!”

BOOM! Qing stomped down and sprang forward.

At that thunderous footfall, the Forbidden City warriors who had been watching this absurd war of words in a daze snapped back to themselves and launched a simultaneous offensive.

And since palace warriors had already been pouring in from all sides, even during that short argument a great many more had joined the fray.

Beom Yakgong’s sword traced circles again and again.

He turned aside countless blades, but there was none of that razor-edged momentum from before, when he’d turned the enemy’s blades back on them, using the enemy to cut down the enemy, poison to cure poison.

Because Qing was charging in.

His circling sword moved for the bare minimum self-defense, while inside that infinite Taiji he was just storing power, only storing power, waiting for the moment of impact to pour the force of the Imperial Taiji out into the world.

His last chance to recover Formless Art and escape the killing field—

In that instant, Beom Yakgong’s eyebrow twitched.

Why was “Yeonsul” charging in?

Sure, by her nature she might be pained by the sight of palace warriors dying, but when she had a thrown-sword that could do that kind of damage, and she was choosing to run in personally?

Beom Yakgong’s gaze sharpened.

Qing’s figure rushed in close, her sword thrusting straight out.

But—

In that instant she split into multiple phantoms and shot out in all directions.

Ripple-Stepping Footwork’s division was a wonder no matter how many times you saw it.

Beom Yakgong’s eyes flashed.

It split into eight to confuse the senses, but in the end it was just a technique with a flaw—she always appeared behind you, using your back as cover.

The moment the translucent Qing came down to earth.

Beom Yakgong’s figure scattered, and then he sprang up into the air, slashing down from above.

His sword became a vertical guillotine from overhead, crashing down on Qing’s crown just as she straightened her back to rise.

SHWEEAK!

Beom Yakgong’s sword drove into Qing’s crown.

It drove in through the top of her head and would have burst out her groin, splitting her in half with a savage slash.

But it missed.

The Qing that had been cut in half vanished.

He had chased a phantom, a hollow result.

“Eat this!”

Qing shouted as she vaulted over a Golden Guard bodyguard on his right and flung out her left arm.

Her elbow snapped back far, preparing for a deep retreat of the blade, the sole of her foot dropping to the ground, ready to stomp and send shock up from the earth.

The return of the thrown-sword that had wrecked the Hall of the Supreme Pole.

Beom Yakgong spun in a rush, bracing his blade with his hand as he thrust it out, internal energy flaring.

He clenched his teeth, steeling himself for the impact that was about to hit, and finally Qing thrust her sword—

Fffft.

Qing’s blade stabbed empty air. Meaninglessly.

It was just a feint, a fake throw.

The Ximen Qing version of that Lonely-Without-Equal Sword move, No-Poison, No True Man.

She’d tried to modify the form into a thrown-sword so she could toss the blade entirely and lessen the recoil.

But when you emptied out over thirty percent of the internal energy in your dantian in a single instant, there was no way to reduce the shock of that massive, transcendent Fire Realm-level internal energy pounding against your meridians.

Sure, if she wanted to, she could fire again.

But why bother?

If you wanted to teach someone to fear nukes, you just had to drop one once. Once they understood the fear, you could get away with threats afterward.

Instead—DENG!

The temple bell of Tathagata Divine Palm rang, and Beom Yakgong’s head rocked back slightly, then his fury-filled gaze snapped back and slammed into Qing.

But that, too, only lasted a moment.

“Die!” “You traitor!”

Because Qing wasn’t alone.

She’d always only ever fought as the one against the many, so finally getting to be the “many” herself felt unbelievably reassuring.

So this is why people jump folks in a mob.

Beom Yakgong’s sword once again traced that soft circle, covering every angle.

But there was none of the violent blood spray from before.

Unlike the Golden Guard bodyguards with their red gleam in the eyes, the combined formation of the Eastern Depot eunuchs moved like some exquisite art of perfectly matched hands and feet.

Three or four would rush in at once—one boosting from behind to add speed, another yanking a comrade out of danger, their advance and retreat completely free as they struck from front and back, left and right all at once.

CLANG-CLANG-CLANG, the constant clash of iron on iron.

And at some point, the clear-eyed Golden Guard bodyguards started replacing the red-glowing ones, taking their positions—obviously real experts, their movements visibly on a different level.

Qing drew her elbow back in time with them.

Just by aiming with her left hand as if she might fire at any moment, her stance lined up, and Beom Yakgong, whose hands and feet were already overbusy, kept shooting her sidelong looks, nervously gauging her.

“Hi-yah!”

Qing thrust her sword.

It was all momentum and no substance.

Beom Yakgong’s body flinched.

And in that instant, a blade smashed into his back.

His old body staggered, and then, seizing the opening, internal energy flashed as others’ blades came in.

“Hryaaahp! Die!”

Qing shouted her kiai and thrust again.

Beom Yakgong’s heart lurched—if he took that while off-balance, he wouldn’t survive.

He flung his body desperately aside.

But what came were only the palace warriors’ kicks and blades.

Three consecutive feints, Three-Linked Bluff.

“Ghuuugh!”

It was then.

A streak of light flew at Beom Yakgong.

TAAANG!! With a massive impact, Beom Yakgong’s figure rocked hard.

Qing blinked. Huh, who fired that?

Her eyes flicked around.

At some point, a warrior in armor had taken position on the top of the wall.

He held a bow as big as himself, and on his back, vicious arrows like thrown spears stuck up over his shoulder.

Then, in no time, warriors in identical gear leapt up to either side, took their positions, drew their bowstrings, and aimed this way.

Oh. So they do have archery martial arts.

Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t they?

The reason there were no archers in the martial world was that the bureaucracy had never allowed archers, not even once.

Back before the Martial Celestial, when the bureaucracy had been overwhelmingly strong, they’d already crushed and erased every bow art, so even after they’d become this much of a pushover, archery had never taken root as a mainstream thing.

And why had the bureaucracy suppressed archery?

Qing finally understood the reason in full.

Because they wanted to keep the good stuff to themselves.

Golden Guard bodyguards and Eastern Depot eunuchs, and now archers on the walls to left and right.

Qing didn’t even need to take up the stance for another fake throw.

No matter how much of a Manifest Realm expert he was, just counting the Fire Realm warriors gathered here, how many were there now?

On top of that, he had to face the combined formation while constantly watching for Qing’s thrown sword, and in every gap between, arrows charged with internal energy came in and disrupted his flow.

As time went on, his weakening was visibly obvious, iron arrows sprouting here and there in the old body like painful decorations.

At this point, you could say his end was near without Qing even needing to interfere.

Then it happened.

“Ghaaaaa!”

Beom Yakgong’s figure closed in in an instant.

Even now he still had the strength to shake off the encirclement?

Just how monstrous was the Manifest Realm?

Qing saw Beom Yakgong charging her.

His shrunken pupils, the bloodshot whites of his eyes. Blood-smeared teeth, an expression that was pure hatred.

In Beom Yakgong’s eyes, Qing was reflected.

Her posture like she was drawing back her blade for another terrifying thrown sword, and the face of an unrivaled beauty staring back at him with eyes gone cold and flat.

Qing’s sword-point shot out.

Sunset-colored internal energy belched forth in a thick stream, turning the shape of her sword into something closer to a club, blazing as it drove forward.

Starlight settled on Beom Yakgong’s blade as well.

As if he meant to pour out every last thing he had left, it flared all at once with a brilliance so bright it was painful, the final strike of a martial man ready to die.

And at the moment of impact—

Qing’s figure scattered into eight and vanished.

Beom Yakgong’s strike carved helplessly through empty air.

Behind him, Qing appeared, and palace warriors swept past on either side of her to mete out justice upon the traitor.

Because she didn’t feel like playing along.

What had she ever done to make this guy so dead set on killing her in the most horrible way possible? If she actually had this Formless Art thing or whatever, she wouldn’t even feel wronged.

But demanding she hand over something she didn’t have and drawing a sword on her on the spot—what a senile old maniac.

Qing looked back.

They said there was no strongman who could stand before numbers, and sure enough, there he was—an old man barely able to stay upright, getting stabbed and punched and shot, completely overwhelmed.

Finally—CRACK!

Beom Yakgong’s sword snapped and went flying.

PEEP-PEEP, whistles trilled and the palace warriors’ bodies all drew back in unison.

Beom Yakgong’s state was miserable.

Huge iron arrows jutted from his back, his shoulders, his forearms, and his clothes were nothing but rags shredded by blades, soaked red and slick with the blood flowing from his skin.

His breathing was ragged, sucking in harsh gasps.