Chapter 925: A Strange Bitch, A Strange Guy, A Strange Guy (10)

In a way, it was an absurd situation.

Inviting Princess Yeonsul—as a wedding guest—to Princess Yeonsul’s wedding, without Princess Yeonsul.

Qing didn’t think of herself as Princess Yeonsul, so she didn’t feel much about it.

But everyone except Qing did feel something.

“My heavens, how outrageous. Princess, you have to congratulate your own wedding. My heavens—how could something so outrageous happen...!”

What was truly outrageous was the eunuch’s syrupy, woman-mimicking voice, but Qing had gotten used to eunuchs by now, so even that didn’t stir much reaction.

Besides, after Qing’s visit to the imperial palace, the “true Yeonsul” princess status had been reclaimed, and the “fake Yeonsul” princess had been recognized as the true Princess Yeonsul.

So it wasn’t even accurate to call it “the fake Yeonsul’s wedding” anymore.

Now, the fake Yeonsul was the true Yeonsul.

You could say it was cruel—sending her off to marry barbarians the moment they realized she was fake.

But adopting someone, making her a princess, and then gifting her to barbarians was an ancient Central Plains tradition.

If anything, since the fake Yeonsul was known as the Son of Heaven’s own daughter, she’d be treated better, not worse.

You could even say she was better off than a post-adoption “marriage alliance” would usually make her.

“Your Highness, I know it’s outrageous to even say it, but—if you refuse an invitation to the wedding after receiving it, it could become a sensitive matter. This lowly one ran his mouth for no reason—this wicked mouth, this rude mouth!”

The eunuch slapped his own lips—smack, smack.

If you thought about it, he could’ve simply said she was a suitable “lady of the palace,” but instead he’d blurted out she was the Son of Heaven’s closest confidant—and that was how they’d ended up handing her a wedding invitation.

It was overzealous loyalty, born from fear that a true imperial descendant might be slighted.

“Eh, it’s fine. If it’s come to this, I’ll just stop by for a moment and go.”

It wasn’t a difficult decision.

It wasn’t even a matter of whether she wanted to attend the wedding.

It was the question of whether she’d be causing trouble on someone’s good day because of herself.

The creep and the Plunderer Demon were on her mind, sure—but no matter how much those two—

...Would they really try to wreck someone else’s wedding?

Mm.

Those bastards might.

Still, they thought she was trying to flee back into the Central Plains. They wouldn’t even imagine she’d go deeper into Manchu territory.

She could get some good food on the way, and then swing wide around up by the Black Dragon River and return.

Whereas if she refused the invitation, she’d be guaranteed to cause a problem.

Then... she had to go. What else was there?

Sure, someone might say she should’ve just kept quiet about her Royal Censor identity from the beginning.

They could say she’d proclaimed proudly that she’d live as Seomun Cheong the martial artist, but then became Seomun Cheonhwa, Royal Censor of the Twelve Circuits, whenever it was convenient—enjoying nothing but playing the superior.

But this time, Qing was innocent.

If it were any other time, maybe. But the Golden Guard inspector had demanded her identity first—he’d searched and questioned her.

Even if she’d tried to hide it, he would’ve made a scene and forced it out.

And it wasn’t like he bore her any malice. A martial artist showing up on the marriage-alliance route in far-off Manchu land was simply suspicious.

No one was really at fault.

If you had to point to a problem, it was that Qing had been in a bad place at a bad time—

And the real culprits were the Plunderer Demon, Gongryang Sayoon, and Kim Heojung: the trio of a strange bitch, a strange guy, and a strange guy.

Yeah.

I really am a pure victim...

Qing was grinding her teeth at the thought of that bizarre trio when—

“Um... Your Highness. Th-that is, if I may...”

“Hm? Yes?”

“If, by any chance... that person—no, that person, I mean, the bride of the wedding... if you wished to meet her once, perhaps...”

The eunuch picked his words with extreme care, watching Qing’s expression.

“You mean you’re asking if I want to meet Princess Yeonsul?”

“Yes. There is no other meaning, only... I wondered if Your Highness might have such a thought...”

“No. Not really. And why would I?”

It was immediate.

So sharp and decisive it sounded like there wasn’t even a reason to consider it.

Maybe because of that, a flicker of relief crossed the old eunuch’s face.

Eunuchs were, by nature, people who hid themselves. If relief was visible on his face at all, he had to be genuinely, truly relieved.

What—did he think I’d see the fake one and grab her hair and start shaking her around?

Like she’d said: why bother?

Qing had zero interest in the fake Yeonsul.

Because she didn’t think of herself as “the real one,” so why would she care about the “fake”?

And it didn’t seem like the fake Yeonsul was some villain who’d used a false identity to bully people and throw power around.

According to the Heavenly-Maiden Temple’s testimony, she’d been a hurriedly arranged stand-in after the attempt to bear the true Yeonsul’s child failed.

It wasn’t like she’d schemed for status elevation herself.

So—she lived her life, Qing lived hers.

And even if they met... what would they say?

Excuse me, I’m the “real” one.

Oh, you are? Um, then...

No, it’s nothing. Just... that’s all.

...

...

Ugh. Even imagining it was awkward.

So she’d just pass like a cow staring at a chicken, and a chicken staring at a cow—pretend they didn’t know each other and move on.

In the first place, she was a stand-in Qing would never see unless Qing went out of her way to ask.

This was a marriage-alliance procession—meaning a journey for a wedding—so wasn’t it Central Plains custom not to show the bride’s face to outsiders?

So—how would they even run into each other?

*****

From morning, the village woke in busy motion.

The Eight Banners—Jurchen elite warriors—prepared once again to escort the marriage-alliance procession.

In every direction came shouted roll calls, rising smoke, the savory smell of meals being prepared for the escort, and the thick, hearty scent of feed being boiled for horses.

Off to one side, a group of riders departed first—an elite mounted vanguard setting out to announce the procession’s arrival ahead of time and prepare safety and conditions in advance.

Of course, that was all on the Jurchen escort side.

Qing, treated as an honored guest, simply woke late, dabbed her face with warm washwater that appeared from somewhere, ate a generous breakfast, and killed time.

Only after that busy morning ended did the carriage carrying the fake Princess Yeonsul begin to roll forward at a slow pace.

A mounted force numbering in the hundreds spread out in front and behind—something you could call a spectacle.

Just... for some reason, it came with a side dish of bright colors.

Their armor colors weren’t unified, which made the whole thing feel oddly messy.

Red, yellow, blue, white—four main colors.

Yellow with red trim, blue with red trim, white with red trim—three more.

And if you put red trim on red, it was just red, so add red armor with white trim—

Eight different armor colors, total.

Riders holding banners matched to those colors formed a wedge formation in front of the bridal carriage.

Eight banners.

Eight Banners.

This was the pride of the Jurchens—their national boast—mounted warriors said to be the strongest of the people.

“What do you think, Royal Censor?”

“Uh... yeah. It’s cool. Lots of colors.”

“Every Jurchen man dreams of the Eight Banners. Quarreling over which banner one wishes to enter is commonplace, and if a small tribe produces even a single Eight Banner warrior, they sometimes hold a great feast for three days.”

That was the escort captain, Pori, explaining.

Eight kinds of banners, each competing, training, and clashing for merit.

The Eight Banners had home ties by region and tribe, but even within those, there were factions that followed other banners.

Qing understood immediately.

Ah. So it’s basically like clubs. You pick a color to root for.

“As I understand it, a Royal Censor of the Twelve Circuits is appointed specially by His Majesty. You range freely across the Central Plains, overseeing all. Have you been to other regions? I have heard that the lake in Qinghai is so vast it is like the sea.”

“Qinghai Lake? It’s huge. But the mountain range rising on the far horizon is so massive that it doesn’t really feel like the sea.”

“Then you must have seen the Tibetan people. When dealing with them, are there any particular taboos we should know?”

“Honestly, the mistakes travelers make are usually waved off with a laugh, so even if you call it a taboo, how serious is it? But the alcohol there is pretty unique—”

Pori kept talking to her nonstop.

What—was he bored? Was he making conversation so she wouldn’t be bored? Or was he just naturally friendly?

None of those.

It was closer to a strategist’s sly probing—trying to squeeze out information, to see if there was some under-heaven state of affairs he and his tribe didn’t know.

In other words: intelligence gathering.

Of course, he picked the wrong target.

Pori had hoped he might catch even a single thread of precious information about distant events that were important precisely because they were unknown—

But what he got instead was a detailed explanation of foods the Tibetan people cooked in Qinghai that she “absolutely had to try,” along with tourist recommendations.

Then more detailed explanations of local foods from another borderland, Yunnan.

Pori’s eyes wavered slightly.

What is this? She’s a Royal Censor, but she doesn’t censor anything—she just wanders the world eating delicacies and sightseeing?

No. That couldn’t be.

They said she was a Royal Censor favored by the Son of Heaven. Even if her words and actions looked light, surely it meant she refused to carelessly leak precious information.

Dream interpretation was always whatever the interpreter wanted it to be.

In reality, Qing hadn’t been trained in intrigue, and she wasn’t the type to be attentive in the first place.

She just thought he seemed interested in travel, so she recommended delicious food and things to see.

If Pori had pressed harder, Qing could’ve spilled a string of extremely valuable rumors—information that would let a strategist infer all kinds of things.

Movements in the west that didn’t feel right, conspiracies aimed at the Bai people of Dali—

But the problem was time.

The procession began to slow.

It hadn’t been fast to begin with—of course you wouldn’t gallop at full speed with the bride’s carriage to gift her the thrill of speed—

Still, the clop-clop of hooves that had been ringing steadily became clop... clop... with more space between each beat.

Because from the front—

A procession so bizarre it defied belief was approaching.

It was far away, but impossible not to notice.

Some enormous structure was slowly drawing closer.

...What the hell is that?

Qing furrowed her brow.

Her narrowed, inhumanly sharp vision locked onto the distant line, inspecting the procession and the structure at its center—its presence screaming from afar.

A gigantic golden palanquin.

No—calling it a palanquin was wrong.

It was too big. Massive, thick, colossal, dazzling.

It was a throne.

At each corner of an enormous square base, handles had been mounted—and the number of men lifting a single side was twenty.

On a square platform slightly smaller than that base, they had stacked another platform, smaller still, and then another, smaller still—

A stepped pyramid.

Eleven tiers in all.

And at the very top of that golden altar, a man sat on a chair carved from jade.

Silence spread through the marriage-alliance procession.

It was the kind of sight you couldn’t believe even while looking at it.

At the center of the Forbidden City, the Hall of Supreme Harmony—where the Son of Heaven’s throne sat—stood atop three platforms.

And inside the Hall of Supreme Harmony, the Son of Heaven’s throne rested upon seven tiers.

That was the seven-tiered throne known as the Son of Heaven’s steps.

Meaning: the Son of Heaven sat atop ten tiers in total, looking down over all under heaven.

But eleven tiers... with a jade chair placed on top?

The intent was so transparent it was almost suspicious.

What kind of deranged person had built something like that—

A horrific golden throne that, by its mere existence, deserved the punishment of “traitor ten thousand times over”?