Chapter 890: The Plague Wretch Is Hiding Its Strength (9)

Qing’s image of what the Mongol barbarians would look like was: each of them wearing a cooking pot upside down on their head, with beards so shaggy you could practically hear them yelling, “BARBARIAN!” just by looking.

But unexpectedly, they looked neat—like actual people.

Hmm. They’re just people on horses......

It was pretty disappointing, honestly.

Especially that furry winter cap, or winter helmet, or whatever it was.

What is this? Didn’t people back home say that annoying little grill you use when eating lamb came from Mongol barbarian helmets?

Yeah. Like that could be true.

To begin with, that kind of lamb barbecue isn’t even Mongol food—it was invented by those barbarian island bastards over there.

And setting aside where a dish comes from, what army in the world would use their precious helmet as a substitute grill to roast meat?

The iron would get ruined and it wouldn’t be able to protect your head, and every time you put it on you’d have to smell thick meat stench.

So about thirty riders who’d kindly delivered her a little disappointment came clopping closer—CLACK-CLACK-CLACK.

Maybe it was just a martial artist’s habit, but before she knew it, she was checking their armament.

Three of them carried long spears with flags skewered onto them, and the rest split their weapons evenly into halberds, crescent blades, and long-handled sabers.

A halberd was a spear with a hook, a crescent blade was a guandao, and a long-handled saber was a great blade with an extended grip—meaning: every weapon here was built to swing from horseback.

Other than that, everyone wore one or two bows at the waist like it was the default.

And weren’t Mongol barbarians famous for that petty style of fighting—riding horses and shooting arrows—like the most pathetic sort of cowardly “warrior”?

Anyway.

Mongols. Mongol barbarians.

After the barbarians who entered the square showed off this uncanny horsemanship—splitting left and right—one rider in the center walked forward more slowly.

He wore shimmering golden silk, and the black horse he rode was tall and sleek—pure-black hide with a neat shine flowing over it, a superior steed among superior steeds.

No matter how you looked at it, the barbarian looked like the leader.

Naturally, everyone’s gaze converged on the center.

They must’ve practiced this in advance, right?

If she imagined Mongol barbarians out in an empty field rehearsing how to make a cool entrance, well... yeah, it kind of broke the mood.

But if you called it ceremony—armies were the kind of group that went hard on ceremony, weren’t they?

Then the people of Geonpyeong dropped to their knees and bowed their heads.

Above them, the leader smiled in satisfaction and opened his mouth.

“Good. Loyal sheep of the tribe. Even today, your devotion pleases me.”

It was extremely fluent Central Plains speech.

“Thank you. Nainporeukdeok.”

The middle-aged man standing before the offerings—Lord Jang—replied in a tone so respectful it was almost grotesque.

At this point it was hard to tell whether this was Mongol barbarian plunder, or some kind of ceremony presenting tribute to a princely lord.

Of course, it was plunder in name only—this was tribute being offered to barbarians.

So that was why telling them to call her Beggar Venerable had rolled off their tongues without awkwardness. Maybe it had been respect embedded in the people of Geonpyeong all along.

“In that sense, it truly is a fine day. And it is so for you as well—because I have two pieces of good news to tell you.”

“What might that be?”

“First: you sheep will no longer need to offer tribute. The tribe has grown strong from the milk and wool of your flock, so even if you sheep are lowly beasts like slaves, it is only right that we show enough gratitude.”

“Thank you. To hear you say so, I hardly know where to put myself.”

Lord Jang thanked the barbarian chief who was openly calling him a beast.

And Lord Jang’s face was even bright with joy.

To anyone else, it would look like a shameless, spineless wretch.

But from the start, to the people of Geonpyeong, this kind of plunder—or tribute—was just a rehearsed play, like a staged performance.

But was it staged for the barbarians, too?

“The other good news is that you have been granted the chance to fulfill your loyalty to the end—as beasts of our tribe.”

Lord Jang’s face filled with questions.

But only for a moment.

“Sheep are truly excellent animals. The master of the plains took in weak sheep, protected them, and raised them—so the sheep follow their master for life and repay his grace. They delight their master with milk and wool, and when they grow old or are injured and no longer produce milk or wool, they gladly offer their bodies, serving their master with meat and hide, do they not?”

If real sheep could understand human speech, they might feel wronged.

After giving milk and wool all that time, was it reasonable to slaughter them because they were old or hurt and no longer useful?

If that was how it went for beasts that couldn’t even speak, then what of a human’s grievance?

“M-my lord, what do you mean—after all the loyalty we’ve shown—”

“So I will send you off comfortably, as a special mercy.”

The Mongol barbarians raised their weapons all at once.

Qing’s expression, who had come to watch something like coexistence between Central Plains people and Mongol barbarians, tightened slightly.

What? Wasn’t this supposed to be staged plunder?

Why does the mood feel like—

“Kill the men and take the women! But ugly women aren’t needed—just kill them!”

Whether it was a joke or sincere, the Mongol barbarians burst into WAAHAHA laughter.

Then Lord Jang sprang up and threw himself in front of the barbarian leader.

“W-wait, wait! My lord! If it’s that the tribute is lacking, then we can gather more—”

“KWAHAHAHA! Not needed!”

The barbarian leader, Nainporeukdeok, boomed with laughter, then yanked the reins hard.

HIIIIIH! The sleek black horse reared up on its hind legs, and the long-handled saber in Nainporeukdeok’s hand rose high, like it would spear the sky.

The black horse’s forelegs crashed back down.

With that momentum added, the massive blade of the long-handled saber dropped in a straight line toward Lord Jang.

Lord Jang stared blankly at the scene, at that vicious blade swelling larger and larger as it filled his vision—

CLANG!

The sharp, piercing roar of metal colliding.

Then the saber blade slammed into the earth—THUD! A heavy impact following after.

THUMP.

A beat late, Lord Jang toppled backward and landed hard on his ass.

An old man’s tailbone had every right to scream, but he didn’t even cry out—his face had gone completely vacant.

Then, CREAK, CREAK, he twisted his head in a stiff, unnatural motion toward the ground beside him.

Only after he saw the blade buried two chi deep in the frozen dirt did he finally realize he’d almost been split in two.

HIIIK—he exhaled the breath he’d been holding as if his soul was leaving his body, then SCRABBLE-SCRABBLE-SCRABBLE, he crawled backward in desperate retreat.

In the meantime, silence fell.

Nainporeukdeok lifted his saber to inspect it, spotted a dent punched into the center of the blade, and frowned.

Something had flown in and struck the blade—so fast it had looked like a streak of light, a single beam.

He hadn’t even been able to see what kind of hidden weapon it was.

Nainporeukdeok slowly turned his head.

“Who is it.”

“What. For a barbarian savage you sure love posturing. I’m a beggar passing by—what, you never seen a beggar? You Mongol bumpkins don’t have beggars? Huh? No—wait, is it good that you don’t have beggars?”

Nainporeukdeok looked at the beggar.

Because of the rags stuffed onto her body, her torso looked swollen, making her head seem bizarrely small in comparison.

But what was even stranger was the way her hair—soaked completely into greasy clumps—covered her face, like she’d combed it down on purpose.

Between strands, her skin showed grotesque blisters and scars, like a skin disease had erupted.

Just looking at her made you feel like you’d catch it.

A plague-ridden beggar.

“What’re you staring at? Never seen a beggar? You Mongol bumpkins—ah, did I already say this? Then listen again. You Mongol bumpkins don’t have beggars? Well sure, you savage monkeys who just pitch some tents and live rough—how would you even know what a beggar is.”

Qing’s tongue slowly loosened, like she was warming up the muscles.

“A beggar, you know. Parasites who don’t work and live by mooching off other people. Wandering around with no fixed home, pitching a tent in some corner and flopping down—ah, right? That’s you, isn’t it? Same industry, huh? So you Mongol barbarian bastards were the beggar bastards all along.”

Qing grinned wide, revealing brilliant white teeth she couldn’t hide even under Beggar Venerable’s human-skin mask.

“Nice to meet you, beggar bastards.”

“Yeah! Nice to meet you, beggar bastards!”

Hearing “beggar bastard” was already ridiculous enough, but on top of that, this tiny little thing beside her—like a trainee beggar—echoed it out loud.

“Trainee beggar” only because it was less filthy, and the clothes looked like they’d once been decent.

Qing beamed and met Nainporeukdeok’s eyes.

Nainporeukdeok clicked his tongue—TCH—and jerked his chin toward Qing as he spoke.

“[Odeok Sain, Sohyeok, bring me that bitch’s head—]”

“Wait! Stop violence! Hate violence! Love safety! Love! Love! Love!”

Qing thrust her palm out and shrieked.

“Shall we talk like civilized people? You savage bastards, you don’t like someone and you immediately go to slicing. Let’s cross over from the age of savagery into the age of civilization. You worked so hard to learn Central Plains speech—if you’re not gonna use it now, when are you gonna use it?”

“Beggar Sister?”

“Yeah. I was a bit rude for a first meeting. I apologize for that. Uh, so, what was it? [Sorry], that’s Mongol barbarian language, right? I’m someone who can speak barbarian. So let’s not do that—let’s solve it with conversation.”

“Beggar Sister? What are you talking about? They’re bad barbarians who invaded our land.”

“[Arhi good. Booze delicious.]”

“Beggar Sister? Can you hear me?”

Moyong Jun tugged hard at Qing’s sleeve.

Qing pretended not to know and ignored him, continuing to pump up Mongol pride in a crooked foreign accent.

“[Do you know, Chinggis Khan? Do not ignore Mongols.]”

“Um, hello? Beggar Sister?”

“I’m a person who loves Mongols this much. So—can’t we work it out with conversation?”

“Beggar Sister? We’re not fighting? They’re bad guys......”

Then suddenly Moyong Jun’s eyes went wide.

Green Guard touched a finger to Moyong Jun’s back and swiped it across—because of the characters delivered by fingertip writing.

“Young Lady—buy time so the commoners can escape. Be quiet.”

Each character meant: young lady, commoners, escape, slow down, silence.

Put together, it meant this:

Young Lady, you are buying time so the commoners can escape, so please shut up.

Moyong Jun looked up at Qing in shock, and her eyes now glittered with fresh, sparkling admiration.

Of course, the idea that Qing was deliberately buying time with nonsense was only Green Guard’s arbitrary judgment.

Whether Qing truly had that intention—only Qing could know.

It could just as easily be bait meant to provoke the enemy, a kneeling to gain momentum, the way she always did.

But Nainporeukdeok knew neither of those possibilities.

Instead, wasn’t it likely his attitude would soften a bit?

“Hm. An interesting woman.”

It couldn’t be helped.

Humans are creatures who instinctively become generous toward foreigners speaking their language.

And if what that foreigner says boosts national pride?

Even back in Qing’s homeland, if some foreigner spoke with an awkward crooked accent, saying, I like kimchi, King Sejong is the best, people would lose their minds over it—same principle.

“But. You want to solve this with conversation?”

“Right, have you ever heard the story of the goose that laid golden eggs—or was it a duck? What was it? Anyway, once upon a time long ago, there was a duck that laid golden eggs—”

Nainporeukdeok frowned, but he listened in silence to Qing’s sudden bundle of storytelling.

At this point, he was probably curious what kind of nonsense this beggar bitch was going to say next.

It was the story of the duck (it’s a goose) that laid golden eggs—something anyone from Qing’s hometown knew as common sense.

Roughly speaking, they cut open the goose’s belly and ate it deliciously—wow, goose meat!—that kind of story.

“So your point is that these ones are the duck, and if we spare them they’ll keep offering tribute, so there’s no need to cut open the belly?”

“Exactly, right?”

“A good story. A story worth passing on—again and again—from the children of the grasslands to their children.”

From grassland children to their children—meaning, something to hand down for generations.

In Mongol barbarian terms, it was a very high compliment.

Qing’s face went a little blank.

“Huh.”

Wait. Is he actually understanding?

He really took a big lesson from this?

But... sure. It could happen.

To begin with, Mongol barbarians’ karmic sin wasn’t that high—just over a hundred points, or not even over, that kind of level.

If they had sin at that level, maybe conversation could actually work.

If she tried to guess why—

It seemed like that number hadn’t recognized this staged pseudo-plunder as “sin.”

And while they were sitting around in Geonpyeong stuffing themselves with tribute, what “bad deeds” would there even be to do on an empty grassland where there was nothing?

...The moment Qing thought that—

“However, woman. Whether we cut open the duck’s belly is ultimately up to the duck’s owner, is it not? The owner of the flock has decided to slaughter the flock—so milk and wool do not matter.”

He was saying he would see blood no matter what.

“No, why are the Geonpyeong people your flock?”

“You say foolish things. Have you Han already forgotten history? You Han are the lowest of slaves among slaves—beasts more useless than livestock, are you not? And yet we treated you as our flock and cared for you; we would have been a master beyond generous. You ought to be grateful, and yet you are not.”

He was referring to the past—an age of the fallen dynasty, the era of Yuan, when the Mongol Great Khan unified the Central Plains and used Central Plains people as slaves.

The Yuan dynasty had ranked the Han as the lowest among the countless peoples of the Central Plains, treating them as worse than beasts—so the story went.

“I have heard a good story, so I will spare you, as a special case. Now, [Warriors of the grasslands!] ...Hm.”

Nainporeukdeok summoned his men—then clamped his mouth shut.

A hollow smile rose afterward.

“Ha. Cunning woman. The flock has all escaped. So that’s why you were stalling for time.”

“Time? What time?”

“A sheep is a sheep even if it runs. It will only shove its head into its pen somewhere. Do you truly think it can flee from warriors of the grasslands?”

“No, why are you still on about sheep? You’re gonna make me crave lamb. Ah, I want lamb ribs.”

“Kekheuh—WAHAHAHA! Your attempt is admirable, but you kick away your own path to survival. If your looks weren’t so ugly, I might have taken you as a wise and courageous woman. If you want to blame something, blame your ugliness. [Odeok Sain, Sohyeok, bring me that bitch’s head.]”

Amazingly, Qing felt the exact same way.

She thought he might actually spare her, but of course.

At this point, there was no helping it. Seriously.

It wasn’t like she was itching to get the taste of slaughter for the first time in a while, and it wasn’t like her hands were twitching because she’d shown the Geonpyeong people mercy.

It was genuinely unavoidable.

Yeah. Self-defense.

With a mouth stretched into a grin that threatened to split up to her ears—

It was, you had to admit, a very convincing excuse.