Chapter 791: Diancang Expedition (2)

They say that after just three days, a man ought to be looked at with fresh eyes—like you have to rub your eyes and double-check whether this is really the same person you knew before.

And those Hall Cadets had already been burning with that kind of zeal, so after roughly two and a half months of going to Beijing and back, you could say even their momentum felt downright different.

The instructor had been away, but fortunately, among the Sword Hall’s assistant instructors there existed a genius of sword-teaching pedagogy—Namgung Sinjae, a Sword-Freak who’d gone completely insane for the blade.

He’d also been a reliable friend Qing could actually relax about as she headed for Beijing.

“Instructor, you’re back!”

“Instructor, did your trip go well!”

The hall trainees who used to be nothing but students now carried themselves with the discipline of a proper combat unit.

Wasn’t one of the reasons the Martial Alliance opened the Righteous-Proper Martial Academy in the first place to absorb cadets like these into the Martial Alliance?

Still, inevitably, Qing felt a little like an outsider.

Because for the Hall Cadets, two and a half months’ worth of shared hardship—memories, bonds, time spent together—had piled up and piled up.

And it wasn’t just the cadets. The assistant-instructor corps was the same, so when Qing saw Namgung Sinjae naturally mingling with Miss Moyong—and also “Miss Sword”—then burying themselves in sword study after hours, °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° she found herself thinking, Huh... when did those guys get that close...?

And beyond that, Dog-Bone—now reformed—and Chang Yohong, the Leopard-Skin Girl, and several others were still sweating it out after hours, swinging their swords like their lives depended on it.

Besides, it wasn’t even some grand, tearful reunion atmosphere, either.

“Oh, you’re here? Took longer than I thought. It’s been a while—want to loosen up your body?”

“Huh? No. Today I’m unpacking first.”

“Unpacking before loosening up your body? I can’t understand you.”

To people of the Central Plains, meeting again after two and a half months honestly didn’t feel that different from not seeing someone for, say, a week.

Back in Qing’s hometown, if you had to go somewhere and it took one shichen (two hours) one way, you’d be wailing, It’s too far—how is anyone supposed to get there?

But in the Central Plains, when people said they were “just popping over to the next town,” they didn’t count in shichen—they counted in chunks of at least half a month.

If it was half a month one way, that wasn’t that far. If it was a full month, then sure, that was “a bit of distance.” So if you were going to Beijing, well, even fast, it’d take at least two months.

Meaning: just when people started thinking, Shouldn’t she be showing up around now?—Qing appeared right on cue.

Of course, that was the adult standard—people who’d gotten a partial grasp on how vast the Central Plains really were. For kids, two and a half months was a seriously long time.

“...!”

Jayeo—walking home hand-in-hand with Jin Jangmyeong—swelled her eyes round as saucers.

She still had those long, heavy dark shadows under her eyes, giving her that exhausted-to-the-bone look, but the moment she saw Qing, she immediately pattered over, pumping her short legs at top speed.

Jayeo launched herself—Qing caught her with both arms, scooped her up in a full hug, and spun her around and around.

Jayeo wrapped around Qing’s neck, and when Qing rubbed cheeks with her, Jayeo burst into her own signature eerie giggle—Kihihit.

“Jayeo, have you been well?”

“Yeah. But the moms were annoying.”

“What? Who was annoying our Jayeo? Who is it—I’ll scold them right now.”

“Seol Mom and Tang Mom.”

“Huh?”

“Ugh, it was a whole circus. Those two were just... a circus. A circus.”

Jin Jangmyeong explained the situation.

Sure enough—after Tang Nanna illegally snatched the academy’s Therapist post, Seol Iri and Tang Nanna’s childish showdown had exploded into existence: the so-called Which Mom Do You Like, Which Mom Do You Like—an ego war between two prideful moms.

For example, whenever they ate, they’d glue themselves right up close and argue over who Jayeo would sit on.

At first, in peak childishness, the two of them actually asked Jayeo which mom’s lap she wanted.

The kind of “for fun” question adults ask that is, for the child themselves, extremely serious—pressuring them and mentally exhausting them to a ridiculous degree.

The Mom version of Do You Like Mom or Dad.

“Mm. These idiots. When are they going to grow up.”

For the record, from a child’s emotional standpoint, people say it’s better not to do that at all—no matter how “fun” it is.

And that “fun” is usually nothing more than adults enjoying the spectacle of a kid flailing and panicking because they don’t know what to do—just those adults laughing their heads off at a cruel little tease that’s only entertaining for them.

And apparently, this wasn’t even teasing. It was serious.

More like parents who fight to the death and are about to divorce, forcing a kid to answer, Which one are you going with?—that level of cruel fork in the road.

But Jayeo wasn’t your average kid, either.

Because she had a lot of moms, and even if the number dropped a bit, it wasn’t like she’d be devastated.

So she told them to get along, and if they were going to fight, she’d choose a neutral country—wisely attempting to seek asylum with Moyong Juhee and Jin Jangmyeong.

The problem was: neither side would yield even an inch.

They’d drag Jayeo back from the “neutral country,” forcibly plop her onto their lap—and then the other one couldn’t stand that, so she’d snatch Jayeo back and seat her on her lap—repeat endlessly for the entire meal.

Jayeo was forced into a life of mobile dining.

Until finally—Jayeo’s major declaration.

With a deep frown carved between her brows, Jayeo stated her position: I hate both moms.

Only then did the two of them finally startle and come to a dramatic settlement.

They pressed one leg each together and put Jayeo half on Seol Iri’s lap, half on Tang Nanna’s lap.

Listening, Qing thought: Huh. Jayeo’s angry face is rare.

I didn’t get to see it. Wouldn’t it have been cute?

“Annoying. Uncomfortable.”

The problem was that Seol Iri was long and lanky, while Nanna was tiny—so when they pressed their legs together, there was an awkward height drop.

And while they kept insisting they’d feed her, they ignored their own meals and constantly shoved chopsticks toward her.

Nanna kept trying to give her snacks, and Seol Iri—refusing to lose—spent the entire summer acting like a human air conditioner, so after work ended, Jayeo’s feet apparently never touched the ground.

“Let’s see... did you get a little rounder?”

“Kihihit, that tickles.”

Honestly, it wasn’t wrong—there was a bit of soft fat at Jayeo’s side.

Maybe because she’d eaten well and rested well, even her face looked a little glossy.

And yet the thick, dark staining under her eyes was unchanged—maybe that couldn’t be helped. The technical term would be hyperpigmentation? Or maybe it was some kind of aftereffect from a Grand Rite or something.

And just like Jin Jangmyeong said—Seol Iri appeared, trying to snatch Jayeo the moment work ended.

“Snff... I missed you so much. Snff.”

“Hm? Seol Iri, are you crying?”

“It’s not me. No.”

“Yeah? Seol Iri cried?”

“It’s not that. No.”

Seol Iri had eyes reddened and bloodshot, her philtrum damp with clear snot running from her nose, speaking in a stuffed-up nasal tone.

A cold? People said even dogs didn’t catch summer colds.

“Do you have a cold?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Some doghouse let the dogs loose. Snff.”

“Ah. Nanna, you little—again.”

Looks like she’d pulled out that Tang Clan villainess specialty—poison that kills someone’s dignity.

“Hey, Qing, let’s eat? We should go eat. And after that, we should wash together, and—heehee—and, um, I heard you were badly hurt? I can’t stand it, seriously. I’ll check your pulse, and if there’s anything I missed I’ll palpate every inch—just in case? If it flares up later, that’s real suffering, you know? Seriously. How do you end up like this the second I look away?”

“Your face is... no, it’s very lecherous.”

“Me—me? What did I do? I’m just worried, okay? Do you think palpation is easy? It’s all technique—I’m not just groping around or anything!”

“Enough. You used poison on Seol Iri, didn’t you?”

“Poison? Maybe it’s a cold? She’s always wrapped in cold air—wouldn’t she catch a cold?”

“Hey. Tsk.”

“No, seriously, why is it always me? You’re so unfair, Qing—you don’t even know what happened. She used some weird technique and made my teacup grow a crust of ice, okay? The second I put the cup to my lips, it’s freezing. Does that make any sense? That’s not just crossing a line—that’s crossing the line and sprinting another mile. How do you turn the tea someone’s drinking into ice water?”

Making tea cold, to people of the Central Plains, was a horrific attack and an insult you couldn’t do even as a joke.

Because all tea had to be drunk warm.

Of course, fruit tea was an exception.

But people called it “fruit tea” casually—strictly speaking, it wasn’t tea at all, which was exactly why it could be served that way.

Fruit tea wasn’t classified as tea—it was classified as a kind of snack.

By the same logic, grain “teas” like barley tea or cassia-seed tea weren’t acknowledged as tea either—but even so, no one in the Central Plains existed who drank grain tea cold.

Anyway.

Qing, listening to this absolute warm-water faith of the Central Plains—

Any beverage that wasn’t a snack had to be warm.

Cold drinks damaged your health, were the starting point—the root cause—of all illness, and even ruined your mind, driving people insane.

That was the Central Plains’ absolute belief.

“Huh? But it’s hot out—wouldn’t cool iced tea be better?”

“...? Right. Qing... you’ve got a lot of good points, but that was always the problem....”

“Anyway. Friends don’t use poison on each other. Give her the antidote. Now.”

“What? Me and that—we’re not friends.”

“Right. No. We’re not.”

“Mmm. If both parties say they aren’t, I guess that’s that.”

Qing nodded, then said again.

“Family doesn’t use poison on each other either. Give her the antidote. Now.”

“W-what? Family? With that?”

“No. I hate it.”

“Unfortunately, while you’re both being Jayeo’s mom, you’re stuck in the same family register. If you hate it, quit being her mom. Jayeo, you’re fine with that, right?”

“Yeah. I have lots of moms.”

“Wow, must be nice. You’ve got so many moms you can just throw them away. Among your friends, you’ve got the most moms, right?”

“Cheoljeong has seven moms. And there are three kids with six—Unhwa, Chaeryeong, Tabok.”

Among kids, if you brought up anything, it turned into a bragging contest—so there had already been a major argument over who had the most moms.

In the Central Plains, since “multiple moms” could be literally true, it wasn’t even a strange context.

After a loud, bustling, long-awaited meal where she ate until she was stuffed, Qing finally felt it.

Ah. I’m back in the martial world.

The Forbidden City really had been... bleak and quiet.

Like everyone was permanently tense, so the atmosphere was heavy.

Maybe I’m just not built for palace life.

After eating, she got some one-on-one time with Chunbong.

“You accepted the post of Royal Censor of the Twelve Circuits? This is... hmm. No matter how the Heavenly Flower Sword is the one-and-only titan who will lead the next era—and that titan is none other than I, Sima—but even if you’re the Heavenly Flower Sword, the only unique genius woman who could be compared to me... still, wow. This has become interesting, hasn’t it?”

“If you’d said ‘the one-and-only great scholar of the next era,’ it would’ve sounded plausible. But sure—‘strategist,’ a ‘pouch of wisdom’? Number One Under Heaven in wisdom?”

“Heh. Of course. Anyway—so you made it out of the imperial palace like this. There are a few possibilities we can consider, yes?”

Royal Censor of the Twelve Circuits—yes, it was exactly the office Qing had thought.

It was a post appointed by the Son of Heaven, holding unilateral censorial authority, with the right to submit the results straight to the Son of Heaven.

Of course, in Qing’s hometown, “Royal Censor” was a name that sounded grand, but in reality it was one of the harshest posts to survive: on the road you fought tigers and wolves, and once you reached a district, you got beaten to death by local power-brokers and corrupt officials who figured, If we kill you, there’s no one left to talk.

But the Central Plains’ Royal Censor was different.

This was the Central Plains, where the Heavenly Dynasty’s authority already sat higher than the sky itself—so no one even dared to imagine an impious thought like, We should just kill them to shut them up.

“Even if they were going to grant you office, I expected they’d give you a cushy post where you couldn’t actually go anywhere or move. But this is a post with real power.”

“Yeah? What do you think it means?”

“On the broadest level, one of three. With the government’s ambition to intrude on the martial world now exposed, this could be a design meant to build the justification for it.”

If Qing ever exercised her censorial authority—

Then the government could respond with the Central Plains government’s signature skill and power: making something that happened into something that never happened.

If they erased Qing’s appointment as Royal Censor of the Twelve Circuits itself, then Qing’s “censure” wouldn’t be a legitimate exercise of authority—it would be transformed into an incident where a martial-world person raided a perfectly normal government office.

“Mm. Second?”

“If it’s not a hardline policy, then it’s a soft one, yes? Look—doesn’t the government entrust such an important post to your martial-world people? So don’t act recklessly; stay quiet and behave. It can be interpreted that way.”

“Third?”

“Third—because they desire the Heavenly Flower Sword’s ability so intensely, it could be read as a kind of love letter—wanting to pull you into the government. But the odds of it being truly that are slim. First, no matter how short the government is on talent, how could they entrust such an important office to the Heavenly Flower Sword—though perhaps if it were someone like me, Sima, this immortal genius, sure—but you, who merely have talent in martial matters, while in terms of intellect you have some, no, rather grave defects—OW!”

“What’s with the sudden turn? Were you really that desperate for my fingers?”

Sima Chunbong hurriedly hugged his massive slab of flesh close, shielding it.

Qing straightened her left index finger, then her right, and made a show of blowing on each in turn—probably a gesture no one in the Central Plains could decode.

But anyway.