Chapter 856: The Way of the Sail Swordsman (3)

Qing told Gilun about the suspicion of madness in the Jong merchant line.

Gilun stroked his chin.

“Hmm. That’s a little ambiguous. That isn’t certain, is it?”

The Jong merchant elder seemed to have been a murderous fiend, sure—but whether that was a symptom passed down by blood wasn’t clear.

It could just be the nasty hobby of a rich local big shot.

Or the Jong merchant elder might have learned it by watching his own father’s “hobby.”

“And from what I heard earlier, the child realized the emptiness of the shackles of resentment and finished his karma through forgiveness. Even if he does have madness, he would’ve already learned the ability to restrain it. Huh....”

A thick regret seeped into Gilun’s voice.

Uh... but this wasn’t something you should be saying with regret, was it?

Or was the not-as-small one supposed to pick up a sword and personally stab the cheating man and cheating woman to death?

...Well, now that she thought about it, that did sound more “manly” and more “martial-world” in spirit.

“Whatever. The story’s pitiful anyway. For now, we’ll check his aptitude a bit, and if he’s acceptable, we’ll take him as a trainee disciple and keep an eye on him.”

By the standards of Qing’s homeland, the Diancang Sect was one of the top mega-corporations in the hierarchy.

The Five Great Families were pure family businesses—if you weren’t family, you had to become family through adoption, so they were exceptions from the start.

For reference, a trainee disciple was—if you had to put it bluntly—a generation rank that hadn’t originally existed.

And what was a generation rank, again?

It was the pecking order inside a sect, bound by the master–disciple relationship.

Around the sect head and elders, their disciples were called first-generation disciples.

Those first-generation disciples taught disciples beneath them—those became second generation.

Then second generation taught disciples beneath them—that became third generation.

Later, when a sect head stepped down and one of the first-generation disciples inherited the position, the generation ranks all shifted up a level.

The sect-head generation became the retired sect-head generation, first generation became the sect-head generation, second became first, third became second.

And then the second generation would take on disciples—thus, third-generation disciples were born.

So that was how it used to be.

The Martial Alliance had started as a Righteous Sect friendship club, but as it solidified into a single coalition, wouldn’t those differing generation ranks twist everyone’s genealogies into knots?

People the same age—one was “higher generation,” so they were an elder, and another was “lower,” so they were a junior.

And if that applied not to one person but to an entire class?

And beyond that—if two or more generations were misaligned?

So quietly—never officially—generation ranks started getting “matched up” across sects.

You could call it shameless.

But the ones most satisfied with this behavior were the higher-ups—the older martial artists.

Especially the sect-head generation.

The sect head and elders handled the sect’s real work. But on top of that, they also had to shoulder the critical duty of teaching the first-generation disciples—the sect’s most important people.

Until when?

Until the sect head died, or became too old and infirm to perform their duties.

But now?

Now you just had to endure.

If you endured for roughly fifteen years—about the length of a single generation—then from then on, a dreamlike life unfolded, lounging around without working and just enjoying everything.

That was how trainee disciples were born.

They were a prospect-development system—teaching kids too young to place into the third generation, while waiting for the generational turnover.

“Whoa. You’re going to take him in at the Diancang Sect?”

“As long as his talent isn’t trash. No matter what, he’d be a disciple of great Diancang—do you think we can just take any dog or cow off the street?”

...Wow. You just say that out loud.

Any sect probably thought that way inside, but on the outside they’d talk about “righteous spirit” and “inner cultivation.”

Just listening to him, it sounded like, Is it really okay to entrust kids to this guy?

But honestly, from the Jong brothers’ perspective, it was a massive grace that they could’ve repaid by prostrating themselves to Qing and swearing to serve her like a mother for the rest of their lives—and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Because the Diancang Sect wasn’t some ordinary sect.

By Qing’s homeland standards, it was a mega-corporation.

Not just any mega-corporation—one of the best in the world.

This was basically saying: They’ll pass the paperwork just on connections and go straight to the interview.

And given Central Plains “face culture,” unless the kid had truly awful talent, it wasn’t much different from saying they’d take him.

A terrifying connection.

A perfect, shameless favor.

“Still... hmm. So the Five Poison Sect loses like this. What a regrettable thing.”

Qing flinched.

In truth, the Five Poison Sect had already been erased—and the one who had cut their seedline off was Qing.

She glanced at him, watching her step.

“Uh... um. You’re sad about it? From what I heard, they did things so nasty even Unorthodox Sects would tell them to back off.”

“Hm? Now that I think about it, I’m not sad.”

“...What?”

“I chose the wrong words. It’s not that it’s regrettable—no, is it?”

“Are you sad or not?”

“Mm. Having to erase such a deeply historic sect with my own hands... isn’t the Five Poison Sect one of the oldest sects in the Central Plains?”

“The Five Poison Sect is that old?”

“Back then, the Five Poison Sect was the Five Poison League—a union of five Miao clans in Sichuan. And what do they say every single day? That they have to reclaim Sichuan the Central Plains people stole in the past. The Five Poison League was in Sichuan in the early Song, so it’s at least older than six hundred years, right? And that’s the minimum—so unless it’s Shaolin, there probably isn’t a sect older than that.”

For reference, Shaolin monks liked to say “a thousand-year Shaolin” with pride—but even that was a humble expression.

From the beginning of Shaolin’s predecessor sect, Shaolin’s history was a thousand years plus about a hundred more.

But “eleven-hundred-year Shaolin” sounded awkward.

Gilun added with a grin.

“Unless it’s our Diancang Sect.”

Ah. So this was what you wanted to say.

Among martial sects, the oldest was naturally Shaolin—because they said the start of all martial learning began with Shaolin’s predecessor sect.

And above that was the Diancang Sect.

But the orthodox view was that the Diancang Sect didn’t count as Central Plains martial history, because it wasn’t originally in the Central Plains at all—it was in Dali, as a sect of the Dali people.

“So I have no choice but to be cautious too. Cutting off such a long history is—enemy or ally—it’s regrettable for a martial artist? Hm? Is it not? At the same time, it’s truly historic—yes. If I, Gilun, am the one who put a period at the end of the Five Poison Sect’s long history, that really sits well with me.”

Qing figured out the personality of the Diancang’s greatest sword—a man who had reached an abstruse realm.

Elder Gilun was the type who spoke first and thought later.

It was too disrespectful a thought, so she held it down—

But even if she hadn’t, Gilun probably would’ve laughed it off anyway.

What thinking did an arrow need?

Once it left the string, it just had to fly straight into the enemy.

“Still, I need to confirm it with my own eyes. Mm—how about tonight? The new moon is close, so it’s perfect for hopping walls, isn’t it?”

On top of that—overflowing action.

He wanted to infiltrate the Five Poison Sect tonight and directly confirm whether it was a Blood Cult den.

That was... honestly a really good idea.

This elder... maybe he fit her well?

“Then we should drink hard and sleep early, since we have to get up at night. You drink at all?”

No—this wasn’t “fit.”

This was perfect.

“Hey! Inn Waiter! Inn Waiter! Huh? Is it because it’s the sticks? I call and there’s no answer. Even if you can’t come right away when a customer calls, you should at least answer fast. Inn Waiter! Inn Waiter!!!”

“Elder, you didn’t put away your aura barrier.”

“Ah. Right. It’s a habit. My senior brother always begs me—begs me—to please trap my voice before I go around talking anywhere.”

“Ah. Yes.”

If Gilun’s senior brother was the Diancang Sect head, Qing could understand exactly what kind of feelings had driven that desperate request.

“Inn Waiter!”

—Yessir! Coming right up!

If the Western Regions had Schrödinger’s cat, the Central Plains had the inn waiter who was “on the way.”

When a customer called, an answer came back right away, but whether the inn waiter was truly coming or not was something you couldn’t know until you physically saw them.

Still, considering the current special circumstance—that the inn’s business was dead—this time, you could predict they really were coming right away.

Right?

RATTLE!

Yep.

With Qing oddly feeling smug, the inn waiter arrived with a friendly smile, rubbing his hands together.

“Hehe. My lord, what would you like me to prepare?”

But the inn waiter’s face...

It wasn’t the inn waiter she always saw.

“Huh? Where’s the man from before?”

“Haha, these days the town’s really gone quiet, hasn’t it. So we have to split the work up, don’t we. At times like this, how can one man work while another rests forever?”

“Hm.”

Qing stared at the inn waiter, then quickly checked above his head again—

What the hell are you?

In the Central Plains, inn waiter was one of the five worst lowborn professions—the Lower Five.

Specifically: horse driver, boatman, porter, inn waiter, and human trafficker.

Their common trait was that the overlap with banditry was absurdly high.

So inn waiters with high evil karma weren’t exactly rare.

But still... wasn’t this too high?

Even high–evil karma inn waiters usually showed up in cheap inns, or roadside lodgings that looked suspicious at a glance.

But this was Jinping’s Finest Inn.

In a high-class inn like this, you almost never saw it.

Which was also exactly why Qing always chose the best inn in town.

Qing narrowed her eyes.

“You must be a very skilled inn waiter. No fortune mole, either?”

The more high-class an inn was, the more they cared about fortune moles—so the inn waiters Qing usually saw had at least one big mole on their face.

But you had none.

“Ah, customer. A fortune mole has to be something you’re born with, so are you saying my fate wasn’t born as an inn waiter’s fate? Thank you kindly. Hehe.”

The way he slid past it—slick and limp—made it look like he was inn-waiter-born to the bone.

Of course, Qing wasn’t some murderous villain who killed everyone with high evil karma.

High evil karma meant you could kill them.

Not that you had to.

Still—she stayed wary.

But evil karma was something only Qing could see.

Gilun waved his hand.

“Enough. Go check the liquor table. And bring Three-Course Tea too, and clear liquor and yellow wine—reasonable amounts. Yeah, and bring grain wine too. You know what I mean, right?”

“Yessir! I’ll bring it right up!”

A little later, the inn waiter and an inn worker came in, groaning as they hauled the liquor table, and with difficulty set it on the tabletop.

“Alright. If you came to Yunnan, you have to experience Yunnan customs. This right here is Three-Course Tea.”

Strictly speaking, it wasn’t Yunnan custom—it was Dali people custom.

When receiving a guest, it was always the very first tea served: good green tea from the Tea-Horse Road steeped three times, hence Three-Course Tea.

The first steep was bitter.

In the Central Plains, they threw out the first steep, but the Bai people didn’t—they just drank it.

And of course, it was bitter.

“Bitter? That’s youth. Bitter, astringent, difficult—that’s the taste of being young.”

The second steep had honey, walnuts, and all kinds of things added, enjoying a rich flavor.

That was middle age—the taste of building a family and achieving abundant happiness.

The third steep was thin and bland.

Of course it was—after steeping it twice already.

That was the taste of old age: faint and hazy.

“An entire life is in here. Ah, finished? Then—shall we begin? Mm, what will you take? Clear liquor? Yellow wine?”

Gilun poured grain wine into a bowl, then mixed in yellow wine and clear liquor, dropped honey and jujubes into it, and stirred it around.

So this elder liked bomb cocktails.

Somehow—despite his dignified appearance—the more she looked, the more he felt less like a Righteous Sect elder and more like a site foreman from her homeland, and... really.

“Alright, alright, the first three cups aren’t something you refuse. Besides, they say the Heavenly Flower Sword is famous as a heavy drinker too—today I’m going to dig up whether that rumor is true.”

“Come on, with just the booze they’ve got here, I’ll barely get through two or three shovelfuls.”

“HAH! Good. Then—hm—what do you call it, I should say a line. Right.”

Gilun lifted his cup and gave a toast.

“To the Five Poison Sect.”

“To the Five Poison Sect.”

That wasn’t a toast someone about to erase the Five Poison Sect from the world should be making.

But it wasn’t that he held some wicked affection—he was just saddened by the fall of a sect with such a long history, and his words came out a little strange.

Unfortunately, the one receiving the toast was also the person who had already erased that sect from the world.

If hell existed, it would be a sight that would make Five Poison Sect disciples weep tears of blood—though honestly, fine.

They were bastards who deserved to weep tears of blood.

Anyway, Qing hastily gulped down the bowl.

It could only be described as hasty—Gilun blinked like he was dumbfounded.

“Were you that thirsty for liquor? You should’ve said so.”

Qing felt wronged.

It was just that the inn waiter’s evil karma bothered her.

One of the most common bad things an inn waiter with high evil karma did was poison alcohol or food.

To cripple someone and sell them, or butcher them and use them as meat—various impure uses.

So the reason Qing had practically thrown herself onto the bomb cocktail was a kind of taste-test.

Taste-test.

The act of eating first to see whether a noble person’s food had been poisoned was called a taste-test.

Mm. No poison.

Well, even if they didn’t know who she was, she’d made enough noise that people would’ve heard she was a master—there was no way they’d try something that stupid.

Qing relaxed.

Then it was pour and drink.

Then: munch munch on side dishes. The side dishes were all mine.

Elder, you drink lots and lots.

But—

These side dishes weren’t normal.

At first, they were just ordinary Chinese dishes, but the more she ate, the more a sharp, stinging heat started to come alive.

What was this?

How did food with no heat at all turn spicy?

It got so bad she could swear even the liquor was getting spicier, too.

“...?”

Qing tilted her head.

It wasn’t her imagination.

The liquor was actually spicy.

What the hell?

Why was liquor spicy?