Chapter 896: Shenyang Trip (4)

The southern foothills of Geonpyeong.

A single, ownerless stone grave rose, lonely.

On the plank stuck behind it, there were only the unmistakable traces of time—weathered to the point the writing couldn’t be made out.

What kind of story did someone have, that they couldn’t even be buried deep—left to lie beneath a shallow pile of stones?

That, no one could know.

But one thing was certain: right now, that stone grave was in a very serious crisis.

Because some ill-mannered woman was ferociously digging it up.

“Uh, Beggar Sister? You can’t just—”

“Huh? Why?”

Qing pulled out a well-dried pack from between the stones and, with practiced ease, threaded it onto her shoulders and strapped it on.

“Ah, you buried it here?”

“Yeah. If a beggar’s walking around with a perfectly fine pack, it’s weird. But if I just bury it anywhere, it’s hard to find later. Right—this is it. This heavy feel. Heh. You’re back. My beloved blade.”

From the blade’s perspective, it might feel wronged.

What martial artist in the world buries their beloved blade inside a stone grave?

Tomb-robbing has been one of the Central Plains’ common hobbies since forever—what if someone took it?

Before that, the cold seeping up from the ground and the frost settling on it would make it damp as hell—what kind of swordsman manages a sword like this?

But a sword is just a sword. Even if it has complaints, it has no way to say them.

Qing pulled her beloved blade out of the grave.

Too wide and too long to call it a standard longsword, but not quite enough to be a greatsword.

This was—

Moonlit Night! Probably Number Ten!

It was “probably Number Ten” because whenever Qing stayed at the Priestess Order Temple, she’d leave it with Old Man Ban at the Seol Family Merchant House, and he’d melt it down and remake it.

Each time, the Seol Family Merchant House would mix in rare metals they’d tracked down—so it only looked the same; the actual composition was different from the original Number Ten.

“Uh, then... this plank too—did you set it up to make it look like a grave?”

“Not for that. But yeah, I set it up.”

“Oh. This is writing? What country’s writing is it?”

“No idea.”

Qing turned and looked down at the plank.

A board barely standing, rotten in spots from age, with crooked scratch-marks carved into it.

If she had to compare, it was close to the writing of Joseon, the Morning Country beyond Changbai Mountain.

Only close—not the same.

Because it was writing that didn’t exist in this era.

Writing only Qing could read.

“MOONLIT NIGHT LIES HERE”

The letters scratched in with a stone were a total mess. The size of each character was all over the place, too—no control at all, so the last character was practically fingernail-sized.

Other countries’ writing came out neat, but for some reason her hometown writing never got “corrected.”

And beneath that, in even smaller letters, another line was carved.

“FUCKING BASTARDS, SEE YOU LATER.”

Qing let out a low snicker.

Back when she carved this, she’d been genuinely determined to become a real master and wreck every last one of them—carving it while breathing hard with rage, teeth bared.

Wow.

How long ago was that now?

Down here, was the remnant of Moonlit Night Number One still sleeping—just the hilt?

Or was it cheap wooden work that had long since rotted away into nothing?

But either way—

What did it matter?

RIIIP—RIIIP.

Qing tore off the human-skin mask she’d been wearing and draped it over the plank. A grotesque sheet of face-skin sagged there like a hideous relic, covered in raised bumps.

Then she reached out—

FWOOP.

Gently pulled up the headstone of Moonlit Night Number One...

...and flung it far, far away.

The Plague Wretch had left the heartless city. Now she ate well and laughed well with good people.

There was no need for it to remain in the world.

And Moonlit Night had been inside her all along—so there was no need for a grave or a headstone in the first place.

Qing stared at the empty spot where the plank had been, then scuffed at it with her foot, grinding it down and filling the place back in.

She gathered her tangled, reed-matted hair back, tied it into one knot, and pulled out a face veil to cover herself.

Only then did she turn around and speak—somehow lighter, oddly unburdened.

“I, the Plague Wretch, become the Beggar Venerable, and lie here. Heh. Come on. Let’s go.”

*****

Liaoning Province, Taean County.

A man collapsed on the ground, gripping a broken sword, and looked up at the opponent before him.

In the undercurrent of secret rumors that drifted through the martial world, there was said to be an opponent called the Plunderer Demon.

His realm was unknown, but he was assumed to be at least a Harmonization Realm master—an oddity who, after a duel, took one of two things as spoils: your life, or your martial art.

But rumors were rumors.

If the Plunderer Demon truly took either a life or a martial art, then an existence like that couldn’t possibly spread by rumor.

If you paid with your life, you didn’t survive—so even if you wanted to spread a rumor, you couldn’t.

And if you crawled away alive by shamefully handing over your martial art—

That was humiliation worse than death for a martial artist, so it wasn’t something you’d ever brag about in front of others.

And yet, rumors didn’t drift for no reason.

Only now did the man realize the rumors about the Plunderer were true.

“Your life, or your martial art?”

“...My martial art.”

“Martial art, huh. The sword art you were using? Didn’t look like it had much depth.”

“Kh—! My realm is low, so I can only barely handle the Three Hues, but my founder said that if I fully master the Six Hues, I can make my name resound under heaven. If I complete the Eight Hues, I’ll have no equal under heaven. That’s what it is—this sword art!”

But the Plunderer Demon snorted.

“Of course the founders who created it would say that. What—if it were you, would you go through all the trouble of making a martial art and then tell people, ‘This is a lousy martial art, even if you master it it’ll still be mediocre, and the power won’t amount to much’?”

“...Kh.”

The man bit his lip, seething.

At that, the Plunderer Demon gave a loud, exaggerated cough.

“Ahem. Sorry. I apologize. I wasn’t trying to insult you—I’m just saying. In this world, if you read only the preface, what martial art isn’t a divine art? Anyway. Enough talk. Show it properly.”

“...From the Eight Hues Sword—First Hue: Bright-Red Hue.”

And so the man displayed the Eight Hues Sword.

If Qing had been here, she would’ve suddenly stared off into empty space, rolling only her eyes with no focus, then abruptly muttered, Ugh—blue.

But in all the world, the only person who categorized martial arts by color was Qing.

And in truth, even a blue-bordered martial art wasn’t something to dismiss.

“Hoh. It’s based on the eight trigrams? It has a pretty refined feel. What about the formula-verse?”

“Ahem. I will recite it. Behold the world: there is the Big Dipper, thus north; the sun and moon rise, thus east; they set, thus west; the Southern Dipper rises, thus south—therefore, at the same time, split the space between them and call it the eight trigrams...”

A bite-sized piece of martial-world common knowledge!

When you recite a formula-verse for a martial art, it’s common practice to repeat it three times.

They say it’s because if someone has the greatest talent, they can memorize it just by hearing it three times.

And the Plunderer Demon, who had listened in silence, nodded the instant the third recitation ended.

The man froze.

“...You memorized it all?”

“It’s not that hard of a formula-verse.”

The man’s expression twisted.

He’d been writing it down and muttering it for three straight months, barely managing to memorize it.

But only for a moment.

“Ahem. Then... may I go now?”

The Plunderer Demon shook his head.

“No. You’re going to die.”

“Why? That’s not what we agreed!”

“An agreement—right, an agreement. You know, trust is extremely important. Do you agree?”

“I do. So now it’s your turn to keep the agreement—”

“That’s what I’m saying. Trust matters. Especially when it comes to transmitting martial arts. If the formula-verse is wrong? Your blood and force could flow backward. Demonic force could invade your upper energy core and drive you insane. Or your true-origin force could scatter and you could become a cripple. Understand?”

The Plunderer Demon’s face turned vicious.

“With your miserable realm, did you think you could deceive me? I gave you a chance to live, and this is how you betray me?”

“Wait—there’s a misunderstanding! There has to be!”

“I told you trust matters. You already tried to deceive me, so even if you speak a formula-verse with no lies now, I can’t believe it.”

“Wait, something’s gone wrong—”

“Kids. Training time.”

Black-clad men burst out from all sides.

The man frantically drew his blade to meet them—

CLANG! CLANG-CLANG! CLANG!

The Plunderer Demon clicked his tongue and turned away.

There was no need to see the outcome.

First, the man never had the skill to survive against the disciples in the first place.

Second, any disciple who got hit or injured by trash like that was going to die someday anyway, so there was no reason to watch over them and care for them.

The Plunderer Demon clicked his tongue and turned away.

And that was when—

In the middle of the alley, a woman with a mercilessly cold face stood there.

Though at her side was something like a primitive ancient frozen treat—milk mixed with honey, frozen around a stick—paired with a milk-ice pop.

“Sword Demon. Haaaah... we have a big problem. Hah, hah.”

“Yeah. Just looking at you, it does seem like a big problem happened. Is it stuck to your lips?”

As expected.

The frozen milk had stuck right onto her lips.

Still expressionless, she answered in that state.

“Yes, but... haaaah... this problem... hah... I’m melting it diligently, so it’s fine. Haaaah.”

“Be careful it doesn’t stick to your tongue too. Seriously—why are you eating ice in the dead of winter?”

“Haaaah... Beginning of Spring has already passed, so it is not winter, hah. The big problem is not the bonding state between my milk-ice pop and my lips. Hah... ah, finally. It has come off.”

“Wait. Before you put your tongue on it, tell me what the problem is first. That’s definitely going to stick.”

“The Mongol men failed to occupy Geonpyeong. They say Princess Yeonsul’s peace procession will not pass through Geonpyeong.”

At that, the Sword Demon’s brows arched.

“No. Those barbarian bastards couldn’t take one backwater town? A dirt village with not even a single sect?”

“Therefore, the ambush at Geonpyeong, and the Sword Demon’s personal hobby, and the plan to face the Imperial Martial Repository’s martial artists one by one and plunder their martial arts—has completely failed. However, the mission is still valid. Yeonsul must die.”

“So where does the princess pass through, then?”

“It is now unknown. However, according to my cold analysis, it is certain the princess will pass through Liaoning land. Therefore, please observe Liaoning land carefully.”

“Is that supposed to be advice? If she doesn’t go through Liaoning, where the hell would she go? Take a boat, stop by Joseon, and come up? What—she’ll tour all the way through Arasa territory and come down?”

“That also has merit. A brilliant thought that strikes at the blind spot. Then I will assist you further. According to my remarkable analysis, Princess Yeonsul’s escort force may be reinforced, or it may be reduced into a private procession. However, they may also anticipate my analysis and keep it unchanged.”

The enemy force might increase, or decrease, or remain the same.

It was truly helpful advice.

The Sword Demon let out a deep sigh.

“I shouldn’t have trusted the barbarians.”

And the woman, at last, licked at the milk-ice pop—

—and her tongue stuck fast.

“Ah. Thih... ih... alh... a... bih... prohblem. Hah... hahhh.”

“You could just bite it off...”

The Sword Demon sighed again.

Even so, he walked up to her and flicked the frozen milk with a finger.

A piece snapped off cleanly, separating into the stick portion in her hand, and a big chunk that had been stuck to the tip of her tongue.

“Oh. Thank you.”

The woman bowed her head expressionlessly as she crunched the ice—

CRUNCH. CRUNCH.

—though somehow, she looked pleased.