Chapter 877: On the Way Home (6)

Jayu quietly gathered his thoughts.

His elder brother hadn’t just released Yeonsul—he’d even granted her the office of Royal Censor of the Twelve Circuits?

Jayu’s smile twisted.

Of course. To a Crown Prince, “brothers” were often worse than strangers. It was to the point where you had to wonder whether a single imperial house with genuine brotherly affection had ever existed in all of history.

“Fox. His Majesty granted my friend the office of Royal Censor of the Twelve Circuits. What do you make of it—can you guess the will of heaven?”

“You mean the young lady? Hoh.”

Changnan Geumho wore a worried expression.

Before he pledged himself to the Prince’s Manor, Changnan Geumho had been, truly, the greatest con artist under the heavens. You needed brains to con people, and as a retainer of the Prince’s Manor, he also served as its strategist.

He stroked his sly little goat beard for a long while, then cleared his throat.

“Well... as far as I know, the young lady is not ordinary talent. She is a martial artist named as the next number-one under heaven, and not just that—some even say she may become a great master comparable to the Martial Son of Heaven.”

Jayu hadn’t realized Yeonsul was that gifted in martial arts.

But thinking back—she’d already been a master the last time he saw her, so maybe she had become an even greater master now.

“If—just hypothetically—the young lady becomes number-one under heaven someday, and then His Majesty grants her the rank of princess... what happens then?”

Jayu’s expression hardened.

Changnan Geumho checked Jayu’s complexion and hurried to add,

“Of course, it’s an extreme hypothetical. The Martial Son of Heaven already acted that brutally, so wouldn’t it be difficult to make such a proposal to the young lady once she becomes that kind of master? But. She has already accepted the office of Royal Censor of the Twelve Circuits. If His Majesty publicly proclaims that fact across the world, he can make the young lady part of the government.”

Jayu’s expression stiffened further.

Granting Yeonsul the rank of princess again wasn’t an “extreme hypothetical.” It was practically a decided future that fit too neatly.

In other words, it meant the birth of a Martial Son of Heaven belonging to the imperial house—no, belonging to the Celestial Dynasty itself.

The problem was that the Deokhyeon Prince’s Manor had been scratching at the imperial house’s nerves.

What if the Son of Heaven changed his mind from exterminating the Martial World to subordinating it?

Originally, the plan had been to keep scraping at the imperial house until the blade-point finally turned their way—then resist together with the Martial World’s forces.

They had already drawn in the Sichuan Tang Clan, and it was obvious the Son of Heaven’s blade-point would aim at the Prince’s Manor and the Martial World together.

For survival, with a common enemy, they believed they could easily pull the Martial World in.

But if the Son of Heaven withdrew the grand policy of exterminating the Martial World, the situation became truly foul.

If it turned into a conflict between the imperial house and the Prince’s Manor, not the Martial World—would the Martial World really put a foot in it?

The Sichuan Tang Clan would be the first to pull its foot out.

So there was no choice.

They had to keep their bodies low.

Even accepting New Year’s respects from the Sichuan Tang Clan had been done to provoke the imperial house, so that, too, had to be dealt with first.

“Your Highness, open the {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} Prince’s Manor at once. If you announce that you will accept New Year’s respects from anyone, won’t the Tang family’s visit become as if it never happened?”

That alone would become a message sent to the imperial house:

We thought about it and realized we crossed a line, so we’ll cancel it—please spare us.

The only issue was, if people heard that an Imperial Prince would give New Year’s blessings, all of Sichuan would flood in.

For the ten days of the New Year festival, he’d probably be stuck receiving bows all day long.

Jayu gave a bitter smile.

He’d thought he might finally share some friendship with the close friend who had come after so long—who would’ve guessed she’d toss a burning shell like this?

“And it is truly heaven’s luck that the young lady brought the news to us, heh heh. Isn’t this exactly the bond heaven grants?”

In one sense, it was truly fortunate.

If they hadn’t known, they would’ve ended up facing the imperial house alone and meeting a miserable end.

“Mmm.”

Changnan Geumho stole a glance at Jayu.

Then, with a shameless laugh fit for a sycophant, he slid his next words out.

“Your Highness, and... there is an even better method. Heh heh.”

“What is it?”

“Before His Majesty draws the young lady in, shouldn’t Your Highness do it first? Not a Martial Son of Heaven of the imperial house, but a Martial Son of Heaven of the Prince’s Manor—what then? That would be like gaining ten thousand soldiers and horses.”

“Draw her in? Do you think that would work? My friend is already a famed elder of the Martial World. No matter how deep our friendship is, she would never lend strength to the Prince’s Manor. And His Majesty would do anything to stop that.”

Of course, personally—as a friend—if Jayu was in danger, she would come to save him.

But that was as a friend, not to lend power to the Prince’s Manor.

Changnan Geumho’s voice turned secretive.

“Heh heh. Then make it a situation even His Majesty can’t help. Form a bond that even His Majesty cannot sever, Your Highness.”

Changnan Geumho beamed as he continued.

“For example—how could His Majesty ever split apart the bond of an already-married couple?”

When Changnan Geumho said that, he lifted his head slightly and looked up at the ceiling.

His eyes met someone on the beam above.

Yeon Pada, having met his gaze, silently raised a thumbs-up.

*****

Liaoning Province, deep night in Heishan County.

A middle-aged man, ripe with drink, staggered across the darkness.

It was the kind of sight that let you guess his martial strength.

In the dead of night, walking drunk through an empty black street in itself meant he had the confidence to protect himself with his own skill.

People from Qing’s homeland might ask what was so impressive about merely walking down a street while drunk.

But in Qing’s homeland, even in an era where the night had been “conquered,” it still offered some of the safest nights in the world. People who didn’t fear the night couldn’t understand.

Here, in this ancient, primitive prehistoric age, the night had not been conquered.

And wasn’t night travel forbidden by national law, besides?

Moreover, anyone in the Martial World lived with grudges, big and small.

To wander alone at night while drunk was practically the same as throwing a challenge at your enemies—Come kill me if you can.

So you could reasonably guess the middle-aged man was, at minimum, the sort of master people called a master.

That confidence—Come if you dare—was faith in his own skill.

Of course, someone might object: when anyone gets drunk, they become a dog—what if he was just a clueless drunk who couldn’t tell up from down?

But in the ruthless Martial World, that kind of man didn’t survive long enough to reach middle age.

In truth, the middle-aged man was a master.

He was Heishan County’s number-one master.

And under the severe rules of Martial World epithets, the region’s number-one master earned the honorable right to use the region’s name.

So the middle-aged man was Heishan County’s number-one master—

“Are you the Heishan Saber, Mao Gan?”

The staggering Mao Gan snapped upright.

Under moonlight, a man stood out of nowhere.

On his right side, two swords. On his left, one saber. On his back, a spear, a great blade, a spiked club—large weapons jutted up like thorns.

“I don’t know who you are, but I finally got myself into a good mood and drank for the new year. I would appreciate it if you didn’t break my spirits and simply went back.”

The man smiled brightly.

“Good, then. What better time to share martial learning? Don’t run—let’s properly clash once.”

“You mean a spar?”

“How would your skill ever grow from something like sparring. Only a fight with your life on the line raises a martial artist.”

A fight with your life on the line.

A life-and-death duel.

At the same time—

From between the alleyways, black-clad men slipped out one after another, spreading a front-and-back encirclement.

A harsh stench of alcohol burst from Mao Gan’s whole body.

A moment later, Mao Gan, having forced the liquor out of his system, drew his saber with solemn care.

“At least let me know who I’m fighting.”

“The Plunderer.”

Mao Gan swallowed.

So the Plunderer truly existed.

I’ve run into a madman.

The Plunderer—an unknown master spoken of like a whispered tale, a reclusive freak.

He appeared in secret, demanded a life-and-death duel, and as the price of victory took either your martial arts or your life.

Martial arts were, by nature, more precious than life.

If you lost and offered your martial arts instead of your life, you’d be treated as a coward who sold his martial arts to survive—wasn’t that the face the Martial World demanded?

So those who kept their martial arts died, and only those who didn’t survived—meaning they kept quiet and didn’t try to tell others.

Still, people were creatures who couldn’t help but spill secrets, and the past of losing and handing over your martial arts wasn’t the sort of thing so heavy you’d guard it with your life forever.

So rumors spread in the shadows: there was a madman like that.

And they called him the Plunderer.

Then the two martial artists collided.

Mirror-matched stances—sabers rising like a crescent from below the waist—slammed together in the middle, like a spine snapping.

“Moon-Shadow Saber Art!”

“It’s not that rare a saber art. They say you’re the best among the Moon-Shadow Saber Art users—so I want to know what kind of achievement you’ve reached.”

In the clear night, sword-energy crashed into sword-energy and shattered starlight scattered over the ground.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!—the heavy sound of blades striking.

Truly even. Neck-and-neck. A dead tie. A perfectly matched clash.

Saber met saber, sometimes flowing, sometimes spilling.

How long did it go on?

As if by agreement, the two men retreated at once and opened distance, and as if nothing had happened, heavy silence fell over the street again.

After a brief pause, Mao Gan spoke.

“I lost.”

It was a sudden declaration of defeat.

They had been evenly matched—so why declare defeat out of nowhere?

Because the tie had been staged. The man had been matching Mao Gan on purpose.

“Life or martial arts? I already know Moon-Shadow Saber Art—do you have anything else? Ah, for the record, I won’t take internal methods.”

“I learned Black-Crow Hand as my life-saving trump.”

“I already know Black-Crow Hand too.”

“Then Leveling Step—”

“I know that too.”

Embarrassment colored Mao Gan’s face.

The Plunderer Demon clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“Nothing to learn, so you’ll have to pay with your life instead. You lot. Training time.”

The Plunderer Demon spoke and turned away, walking off, and the black-clad men launched themselves all at once as if they’d been waiting.

And in front of the Plunderer Demon, indifferent as he left, a woman stood there without a sound—when had she arrived?

A face devoid of emotion, endlessly cold.

Then a cold voice spilled from her—

with honey pastry stuffed in her mouth.

“Sword Demon, Haez’s word—mff.”

“Seriously. Either eat or talk—pick one. And why are you always stuffing your face?”

“Mm. Honey pastry. Daily... eatin’.”

“Is eating first? What kind of corpse zombie stuffs itself with people food like that. Aren’t you supposed to be drinking people blood or something?”

“That’s a lie. I don’t have... taste.”

The woman kept the expression of a cold city woman while tearing into the honey pastry with aggressive relish.

The Plunderer Demon walked on, and she fell in beside him, matching his steps.

NOM NOM NOM.

And finally—GULP—she swallowed the last bite.

“Sword Demon. A message from the Society Master.”

“Yeah. What is it?”

“They say Princess Yeonsul will pass through Liaoning on the way to a marriage alliance with the Jurchen. He says the princess must die.”

“Kill the princess? Why—did the princess learn martial arts?”

“Would she have? Say something that makes sense. It would be nice if you used that thing called thinking.”

“Cut down a woman who doesn’t even know martial arts? How could I do that. Tell him to send someone else. I don’t have time for useless nonsense like that.”

“Sword Demon, if she’s a princess, won’t a master from the imperial palace escort her? It would be nice if you used that thing called thinking.”

The Plunderer Demon—Sword Demon—smiled.

“Ah. Right. They say every martial art under heaven sleeps in the imperial martial repository, don’t they? Maybe she’s even learned a divine art of the old sects. Besides, the Society Master would know my temperament perfectly.”

“Then I will take my leave.”

She said only what she came to say and turned to withdraw at once.

Sword Demon called her back.

“Ah. Wait.”

“What is it?”

“I bought some dumplings in case I got hungry, but it’s a bit much to eat them right before sleeping. You eat them.”

Sword Demon tossed over a bundle.

The woman immediately stuffed a dumpling into her mouth, dipped her head, brought her feet together, and sprang—vanishing without a trace.